ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


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&lice  Proton 


THE  ONE-FOOTED  FAIRY  AND  OTHER 
STORIES.  Illustrated. 

JOHN  WINTERBOURNE'S  FAMILY. 

COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS. 

THE  STORY  OF  THYRZA.  With  frontis 
piece. 

ROSE  MacLEOD.    With  frontispiece. 

THE  COUNTY  ROAD. 

THE  COURT  OF  LOVE. 

PARADISE. 

HIGH  NOON. 

THE  MANNERINGS. 

MARGARET  WARRENER. 

KING'S  END. 

MEADOW  GRASS.  Tales  of  New  England 
Life. 

TIVERTON  TALES. 

BY  OAK  AND  THORN.  A  Record  of  Eng- 
lish  Days 

THE  DAY  OF  HIS  YOUTH. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NBW  YORK 


COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 


COUNTRY 
NEIGHBORS 


BY 


ALICE  BROWN 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOTJGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

iiitoersiDc  prestf  CambriDoe 


COPYRIGHT,   1910,   BY  ALICE   BROWN 
ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 


CONTENTS 

THE  PLAY  HOUSE .       .1 

His  FIRST  WIFE 20 

A  FLOWER  OF  APRIL 42 

THE  AUCTION 53 

SATURDAY  NIGHT 76 

A  GRIEF  DEFERRED 96 

THE  CHALLENGE 122 

PARTNERS 150 

FLOWERS  OF  PARADISE 171 

GARDENER  JIM 192 

THE  SILVER  TEA-SET 215 

THE  OTHER  MRS.  DILL 237 

THE  ADVOCATE 265 

THE  MASQUERADE 285 

A  POETESS  IN  SPRING 314 

THE  MASTER  MINDS  OF  HISTORY 341 


*  •*    MW  /~\    / 


THE  PLAY  HOUSE 

AMELIA  MAXWELL  sat  by  the  front-chamber 
window  of  the  great  house  overlooking  the  road, 
and  her  own  "  story-an'-a-half  "  farther  toward 
the  west.  Every  day  she  was  alone  under  her 
own  roof,  save  at  the  times  when  old  lady 
Knowles  of  the  great  house  summoned  her  for 
work  at  fine  sewing  or  braiding  rags.  All  Ame 
lia's  kin  were  dead.  Now  she  was  used  to  their 
solemn  absence,  and  sufficiently  at  one  with  her 
own  humble  way  of  life,  letting  her  few  acres  at 
the  halves,  and  earning  a  dollar  here  and  there 
with  her  clever  fingers.  She  was  but  little  over 
forty,  yet  she  was  aware  that  her  life,  in  its 
keener  phases,  was  already  done.  She  had  had 
her  romance  and  striven  to  forget  it  ;  but  out  of 
that  time  pathetic  voices  now  and  then  called  to 
her,  and  old  longings  awoke,  to  breathe  for  a 
moment  and  then  sleep  again. 

Amelia  seemed,  even  to  old  lady  Knowles, 
who  knew  her  best,  a  cheerful,  humorous  body; 
but  only  Amelia  saw  the  road  by  which  her 
serenity  had  come.  Chiefly  it  was  through  an 
inexplicable  devotion  to  the  great  house.  She 
could  not  remember  a  time  when  it  was  not  won- 


2  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

derf ul  to  her.  "While  she  was  a  little  girl,  living 
alone  with  her  mother,  she  used  to  sit  on  the 
doorstone  with  her  bread  and  milk  at  bedtime, 
and  think  of  the  great  house,  how  grand  it  was 
and  large.  There  was  a  wonderful  way  the  sun 
had  of  falling,  at  twilight,  across  the  pillars  of 
its  porch  where  the  elm  drooped  sweetly,  and  in 
the  moonlight  it  was  like  a  fairy  city.  But  the 
morning  was  perhaps  the  best  moment  of  all. 
The  great  house  was  painted  a  pale  yellow,  and 
when  Amelia  awoke  with  the  sun  in  her  little 
unshaded  chamber,  she  thought  how  dark  the 
blinds  were  there,  with  such  a  solemn  richness  in 
their  green.  The  flower-beds  in  front  were  beau 
tiful  to  her;  but  the  back  garden,  lying  along 
side  the  orchard,  and  stretching  through  tangles 
of  sweet-william  and  rose,  was  an  enchanted  spot 
to  play  in.  The  child  that  was,  used  to  wander 
there  and  feel  very  rich.  Now,  a  woman,  she  sat 
in  the  great  house  sewing,  and  felt  rich  again. 
As  it  happened,  for  one  of  the  many  times  it 
came  to  her,  she  was  thinking  what  the  great 
house  had  done  for  her.  Old  lady  Knowles  had, 
in  her  stately  way,  been  a  kind  of  patron  saint, 
and  in  that  summer,  years  ago,  when  Amelia's 
romance  died  and  she  had  drooped  like  a  starv 
ing  plant,  Ruf  us,  the  old  lady's  son,  had  seemed 
to  see  her  trouble  and  stood  by  her.  He  did  not 
speak  of  it.  He  only  took  her  for  long  drives, 


THE  PLAY  HOUSE  3 

and  made  his  cheerful  presence  evident  in  many 
ways,  and  when  he  died,  with  a  tragic  sudden 
ness,  Amelia  used  selfishly  to  feel  that  he  had 
lived  at  least  long  enough  to  keep  her  from  fail 
ing  of  that  inner  blight. 

On  this  day  when  old  lady  Knowles  had  gone 
with  Ann,  her  faithful  help,  to  see  the  cousin  to 
whom  she  made  pilgrimage  once  a  year,  Amelia 
resolved  to  enjoy  herself  to  the  full.  She  laid 
down  her  sewing,  from  time  to  time,  to  look 
about  her  at  the  poppy-strewn  paper,  the  four- 
post  bed  and  flowered  tester,  the  great  fireplace 
with  its  shining  dogs,  and  the  Venus  and  Cupid 
mirror.  Over  and  over  again  she  had  played  that 
the  house  was  hers,  and  to-day,  through  some 
heralding  excitement  in  the  air,  it  seemed  doubly 
so.  She  sat  in  a  dream  of  housewifely  posses 
sion,  conning  idly  over  the  pleasant  things  she 
might  do  before  the  day  was  over.  There  was 
cold  tongue  for  her  dinner,  Ann  had  told  her, 
and  a  clear  soup,  if  she  liked  to  heat  it.  She 
might  cook  vegetables  if  she  chose.  And  there 
was  the  best  of  tea  to  be  made  out  of  the  china 
caddy,  and  rich  cake  in  the  parlor  crock.  After 
one  such  glad  deliberation,  she  caught  her  sew 
ing  guiltily  up  from  her  lap  and  began  to  set 
compensating  stitches.  But  even  then  her  con 
science  slept  unstirred.  Old  lady  Knowles  was 
in  no  hurry  for  the  work,  she  knew,  and  she 


4  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

would  make  up  for  her  dreaming  in  the  account 
of  her  day. 

There  was  a  sound  without.  The  gate  swung 
softly  shut  and  a  man  came  up  the  path.  Amelia, 
at  the  glance,  rose  quickly,  dropped  her  sewing, 
and  hurried  out  and  down  the  stairs.  The  front 
door  was  open,  she  knew,  and  though  there  was 
never  anything  to  be  afraid  of,  still  the  house 
was  in  her  charge.  At  the  door  she  met  him,  just 
lifting  his  hand  to  touch  the  knocker.  He  was  a 
tall,  weedy  fellow  of  something  more  than  her 
own  age,  with  light  hair  and  blue  eyes  and  a 
strangely  arrested  look,  as  if  he  obstinately,  and 
against  his  own  advantage,  continued  to  keep 
young. 

Amelia  knew  him  at  once,  as  he  did  her,  though 
it  was  twenty  years  since  they  had  met. 

"Why,  Jared  Beale  ! "  she  faltered. 

He  was  much  moved.  The  flush  came  quickly 
to  his  face  in  a  way  she  had  known,  and  his  eyes 
softened. 

"  I  should  ha'  recognized  ye  anywheres,  Milly," 
he  asserted. 

She  still  stood  looking  at  him,  unable  to  ask 
him  in  or  to  make  apology  for  the  lack. 

"  I  went  straight  to  your  house  from  the  train," 
he  said.  "  'T  was  all  shut  up.  Don't  anybody  live 
there  now  ?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Amelia,  "somebody  lives 


THE  PLAY  HOUSE  5 

there."  The  red  had  come  into  her  cheeks,  and 
her  eyes  burned  brightly.  Then  as  he  looked  at 
her  hesitatingly,  in  the  way  he  used  to  look,  she 
trembled  a  little. 

"Come  in,  Jared,"  she  said,  retreating  a  hos 
pitable  space.  "  Come  right  in." 

She  stood  aside,  and  then,  when  he  stepped 
over  the  sill,  led  the  way  into  the  dining-room, 
where  there  was  a  cool  green  light  from  the 
darkened  blinds,  and  the  only  window  open  to 
the  sun  disclosed  a  trembling  grapevine  and  a 
vista  down  the  garden  path.  Amelia  drew  for 
ward  a  chair,  with  a  decided  motion. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  said,  and  busied  herself  with 
opening  a  blind. 

When  she  took  her  own  chair  opposite  him, 
she  found  that  he  had  laid  his  hat  beside  him 
on  the  floor,  and,  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers  to 
gether,  was  bending  forward  in  an  attitude  be 
longing  to  his  youth.  He  was  regarding  her  with 
the  slightly  blurred  look  of  his  near-sighted  eyes, 
and  she  began  hastily  to  speak. 

"  You  stayin'  round  these  parts  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Jared, "  no.  I  had  to  come  east  on 
business.  There  was  some  property  to  be  settled 
up  in  Beulah,  so  I  thought  I  'd  jest  step  down 
here  an'  see  how  things  were." 

"Beulah  !"  she  repeated.  "Why,  that's  fifty 
miles  from  here  ! " 


6  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  Yes,"  returned  Jared.  "  It  's  a  matter  o'  fifty 
mile.  Fact  is,"  he  said  uneasily,  "  I  did  n't  know 
how  you  was  fixed.  It 's  kinder  worried  me." 

A  flush  ran  into  her  face,  to  the  roots  of  her 
pretty  hair;  yet  her  frank  eyes  never  left  him. 
Then  her  evasive  speech  belied  her  look. 

"I  get  along  real  well.  I  s'pose  you  knew 
mother  wa'n't  with  me  now  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  heard  a  word  from  here  for  seventeen 
year,"  he  said,  half  bitterly,  as  if  the  silence  had 
been  hard  to  bear.  "  There  's  no  way  for  me  to 
hear  now.  The  last  was  from  Tom  Merrick.  He 
said  you  'd  begun  to  go  with  Ruf us  Knowles." 

Amelia  trembled  over  her  whole  body. 

"  That  was  a  good  while  ago,"  she  ventured. 

"  Yes,  ?t  was.  A  good  many  things  have  come 
an'  gone.  An'  now  Ruf  us  is  dead — I  see  his 
death  in  an  old  paper  — -  an'  here  you  be,  his  wid- 
der,  livin'  in  the  old  house." 

"Why!  "breathed  Amelia,  "why!"  She  choked 
upon  the  word,  but  before  she  could  deny  it  he 
had  begun  again,  in  gentle  reminiscence. 

"  'T  won't  harm  nobody  to  talk  over  old  times 
a  mite,  Amelia.  Mebbe  that 's  what  I  come  on  for, 
though  I  thought 't  was  to  see  how  you  was  fixed. 
I  thought  mebbe  I  should  find  you  livin'  kinder 
near  the  wind,  an'  mebbe  you  'd  let  me  look  out 
for  you  a  mite." 

The  tears  came  into  Amelia's  eyes.  She  looked 


THE  PLAY  HOUSE  7 

about  her  as  if  she  owned  the  room,  the  old  china, 
and  the  house. 

"  That 's  real  good  of  you,  Jared,"  she  said 
movingly.  "  I  sha'n't  ever  forget  it.  But  you  see 
for  yourself.  I  don't  want  for  nothin'." 

"  I  guess  we  should  ha'  thought  't  was  queer, 
when  you  went  trottin'  by  to  school,"  he  said 
irrelevantly,  "if  anybody 'd  told  you  you  'd  reign 
over  the  old  Knowles  house.1' 

"  Yes,"  said  Amelia  softly,  again  looking 
about  her,  this  time  with  love  and  thankfulness, 
"  I  guess  they  would.  You  leave  your  wife  well  ?  " 
she  asked  suddenly,  perhaps  to  suggest  the  re 
ality  of  his  own  house  of  life. 

Jared  shook  his  head, 

"  She  ain't  stepped  a  step  for  seven  year." 

"  Oh,  my  !  "  grieved  Amelia.  "  Won't  she  ever 
be  any  better  ?  " 

"  No.  We  've  had  all  the  doctors,  eclectic  an' 
herb  besides,  an'  they  don't  give  her  no  hope. 
She  was  a  great  driver.  We  laid  up  money 
steady  them  years  before  she  was  took  down. 
She  knew  how  to  make  an'  she  knew  how  to 


save." 


His  face  settled  into  lines  of  brooding  recol 
lection.  Immediately  Amelia  was  aware  that 
those  years  had  been  bitter  to  him,  and  that  the 
fruit  of  them  was  stale  and  dry.  She  cut  by  in 
stinct  into  a  pleasant  by-path. 


8  COIHSTTKY  NEIGHBORS 

"  You  play  your  fiddle  any  now  ?  " 

He  started  out  of  his  maze  at  life. 

"  No,"  he  owned,  "  no !  "  as  if  he  hardly  re 
membered  such  a  thing  had  been.  "  I  dropped 
that  more  'n  fifteen  year  ago." 

"  Seems  if  my  feet  never  could  keep  still 
when  you  played  '  Money  Musk,":  avowed 
Amelia,  her  eyes  shining.  "  '  The  Road  to  Bos 
ton,'  too  !  My !  wa'n't  that  grand ! " 

"  'T  was  mostly  dance-music  I  knew,"  said 
Jared.  "  She  never  liked  it,"  he  added,  in  a 
burst  of  weary  confidence. 

"  Your  wife  ?  " 

"She  was  a  church  member,  old-fashioned 
kind.  Didn't  believe  in  dancin'.  '  The  devil's 
tunes,'  she  called  'em.  Well,  mebbe  they  were; 
but  I  kinder  liked  'em  myself." 

"  Well,"  said  Amelia,  in  a  safe  commonplace, 
"  I  guess  there  's  some  harm  in  'most  everything. 
It 's  'cordin'  to  the  way  you  take  it."  Then  one 
of  her  quick  changes  came  upon  her.  The  self 
that  played  at  life  when  real  life  failed  her,  and 
so  kept  youth  alive,  awoke  to  shine  in  her  eyes 
and  flush  her  pretty  cheek.  She  looked  about 
the  room,  as  if  to  seek  concurrence  from  the 
hearthside  gods.  "  Jared,"  she  said,  "  you  goin' 
to  stay  round  here  long  ?" 

He  made  an  involuntary  motion  toward  his  hat. 

"No,  oh,  no,"  he  answered.  "  I  'm  goin'  'cross 


THE  PLAY  HOUSE  9 

lots  to  the  Junction.  I  come  round  the  road.  I 
guess  't  ain't  more  'n  four  mile  along  by  the  pine 
woods  an'  the  b'ilin'  spring,"  he  added,  smiling 
at  her.  "  Leastways  it  did  n't  use  to  be.  I  thought 
if  I  could  get  the  seven-o'clock,  't  would  take 
me  back  to  Boston  so's  I  could  ketch  my  train 
to-night.  She  's  kinder  dull,  out  there  alone,"  he 
ended,  wearily.  "  'T  was  some  o'  her  property  I 
come  to  settle  up.  She  '11  want  to  hear  about  it. 
I  never  was  no  kind  of  a  letter-writer." 

Amelia  rose. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,  then,"  she  said,  with  a 
sweet  decision,  "  you  stay  right  here  an'  have 
dinner.  I  'm  all  alone  to-day." 

"  Ain't  old  lady  Knowles  — "  He  paused  de 
corously,  and  Amelia  laughed.  It  seemed  to  her 
as  if  old  lady  Knowles  and  the  house  would  al 
ways  be  beneficently  there  because  they  always 
had  been. 

"  Law,  yes,"  she  said.  "  She 's  alive.  So 's  old 
Ann.  They  've  gone  to  Wareham,  to  spend  the 
day." 

Jared  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"  If  that  don't  make  time  stand  still,"  he  said, 
"  nothin'  ever  did.  Why,  when  we  was  in  the 
Third  Reader  old  lady  Knowles  an'  Ann  har 
nessed  up  one  day  in  the  year  an'  drove  over  to 
Wareham  to  spend  the  day." 

"  Yes,"  Amelia  sparkled  back  at  him,  "  't  is 


10  COUNTEY  NEIGHBOKS 

so.  They  look  pretty  much  the  same,  both  of 
?em." 

"  They  must  be  well  along  in  years  ?  " 

Amelia  had  begun  putting  up  the  leaves  of 
the  mahogany  dining-table.  She  laughed,  a 
pretty  ripple. 

"Well,  anyway,"  she  qualified,  "old  Pomp 
ain't  gone  with  'em.  He  's  buried  out  under  the 
August  sweet.  They  've  got  an  old  white  now. 
?T  was  the  colt  long  after  you  left  here."  She 
had  gone  to  the  dresser  and  pulled  open  a 
drawer.  Those  were  the  every-day  tablecloths, 
fine  and  good;  but  in  the  drawer  above,  she 
knew,  was  the  best  damask,  snowdrops  and 
other  patterns  more  wonderful,  with  birds  and 
butterflies.  She  debated  but  a  moment,  and  then 
pulled  out  a  lovely  piece  that  shone  with  iron 
ing.  u  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  Jared,"  she  said, 
returning  to  spread  it  on  the  table  with  deft 
touches,  "  it 's  we  that  change,  as  well  as  other 
folks.  Ever  think  o'  that  ?  Ever  occur  to  you  old 
lady  Knowles  wa'n't  much  over  sixty  them  days 
wrhen  we  used  to  call  her  old  ?  'T  was  because 
we  were  so  young  ourselves.  She  don't  seem 
much  different  to  me  now  from  what  she  did 
then." 

"  There 's  a  good  deal  in  that,"  said  Jared, 
rising.  "  Want  I  should  draw  you  up  some  water 
out  o' the  old  well?" 


THE  PLAY  HOUSE  11 

"  Yes.  I  shall  want  some  in  a  minute.  I  '11  make 
us  a  cup  o'  coffee.  You  like  that." 

Jared  drew  the  water,  and  after  he  had  brought 
it  to  her  he  went  out  into  the  back  garden  ;  and, 
while  she  moved  back  and  forth  from  pantry  to 
table,  she  caught  glimpses  of  him  through  the 
window  as  he  went  about  from  the  bees  to  the 
flower-beds,  in  a  reminiscent  wandering.  Once 
he  halted  under  the  sweet-bough  and  gave  one 
branch  a  shake,  and  then,  with  an  unerring  re 
membrance,  he  crossed  the  sward  to  the  "  sopsy- 
vine  "  by  the  wall. 

Amelia  could  not  get  over  the  wonder  of  hav 
ing  him  there.  Strangely,  he  had  not  changed. 
Even  his  speech  had  the  old  neighborly  tang. 
Whether  he  had  returned  to  it  as  to  a  never- 
forgotten  tune,  she  could  not  know  ;  but  it  was 
in  her  ears,  awakening  touches  of  old  harmony. 
Yet  these  things  she  dared  not  dwell  upon.  She 
put  them  aside  in  haste  to  live  with  after  he 
should  be  gone. 

Her  preparations  were  swiftly  made,  lest  she 
should  lose  a  moment  of  his  stay,  and  presently 
she  went  to  the  door  and  summoned  him. 

"  Dinner 's  ready,  Jared !  " 

It  sounded  as  if  she  had  said  it  every  day, 
and  she  knew  why ;  the  words  and  others  like 
them,  sweet  and  commonplace,  were  inwoven 
with  the  texture  of  her  dreams. 


12  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

Jared  came  in,  an  eager  look  upon  his  face, 
as  if  he  also  were  in  a  maze,  and  they  sat  down 
at  the  table,  where  the  viands  were  arranged  in 
a  beautiful  order.  Jared  laid  down  his  knife  and 
fork. 

"  "Well,"  said  he,  "  old  Ann  ain't  lost  her  fac 
ulty.  This  tastes  for  all  the  world  just  as  old  lady 
Knowles's  things  used  to  when  I  come  over  here 
to  weed  the  garden  an'  stayed  to  dinner." 

Amelia  lifted  a  thankful  look. 

"  I  ?m  proper  glad  you  've  come  back,  Jared," 
she  said  simply.  "I  never  had  any  expectation 
of  seein'  you  again,  leastways  not  in  this  world." 

Jared  spoke  irrelevantly:  — 

"  There 's  a  good  many  things  I  Ve  wanted  to 
talk  over  with  you,  'Melia,  from  time  to  time. 
Now  there  's  Arthur." 

Amelia  nodded. 

"  He  ain't  done  very  well,  has  he  ?  "  she  in 
quired.  "  I  never  knew  much  about  him  after  he 
moved  away  ;  but  seems  if  I  heard  he  'd  took  to 
drink." 

"  That 's  it.  Arthur  was  as  good  a  boy  as  ever 
stepped,  but  he  got  led  away  when  he  wa'n't  old 
enough  to  know  t'  other  from  which.  Well,  I've 
always  stood  by  him,  'Melia.  Folks  say  he 's  only 
an  adopted  brother.  '  What  you  want  to  hang 
on  to  him  for,  an'  send  good  money  after  bad  ? ' 
That 's  what  they  say.  Well,  what  if  he  is  an 


THE  PLAY  HOUSE  13 

adopted  brother  ?  Father  an'  mother  set  by  him, 
an'  I  set  by  him,  too." 

He  had  a  worried  look,  and  his  tone  rang  fret 
fully,  as  if  it  continued  a  line  of  dreary  argument. 

"  Of  course  you  set  by  him,  Jared,"  said 
Amelia,  almost  indignantly.  "  I  should  n't  feel 
the  same  towards  you  if  you  did  n't." 

Jared  was  deep  in  the  relief  of  his  pathetic 
confidences. 

"Arthur married  young,  an'  folks  said  he  'd  no 
business  to,  nothin'  to  live  on,  an'  his  habits  bein' 
what  they  were.  "Well,  I  could  n't  dispute  that. 
But  when  he  got  that  fall,  so 't  he  laid  there 
paralyzed,  I  wanted  to  take  the  cars  an'  go  right 
on  to  York  State  an'  see  him.  I  didn't.  I  couldn't 
get  away;  but  I  sent  him  all  I  could  afford  to, 
an'  I  'm  goin'  to  keep  on  sendin'  jest  as  long  as 
I  'm  above  ground.  An'  I  've  made  my  will  an' 
provided  for  him." 

His  voice  had  a  fractious  tone,  as  if  he  com 
bated  an  unseen  tyrant.  Amelia  dared  not  speak. 
At  a  word,  she  felt,  he  might  say  too  much.  Now 
Jared  was  looking  at  her  in  a  bright  appeal,  as 
if,  sure  as  he  was  of  her  sympathy,  he  besought 
the  expression  of  it. 

"  There  ain't  a  soul  but  you  knows  I  've  made 
my  will,  'Melia,"  he  said.  "  There  's  suthin'  in  it 
for  you,  too." 

Amelia  shrank,  and  her  eyes  betrayed  her 


14  COUNTEY  NEIGHBORS 

terror;  it  was  as  if  she  could  carry  on  their  rela 
tion  together  quite  happily,  but  as  soon  as  the 
judgment  of  the  world  were  challenged  she 
must  hide  it  away,  like  a  treasure  in  a  box. 

"  No,  Jared ! "  she  breathed.  "  No,  oh,  no ! 
Don't  you  do  such  a  thing  as  that." 

Jared  laughed  a  little,  but  half  sadly. 

"  Seems  kinder  queer  to  me  now,"  he  owned, 
"  now  I  see  you  settin'  here,  only  to  put  out  your 
hand  an'  take  a  thing  if  you  want  it.  Did  Ruf  us 
leave  a  will  ?  " 

Amelia  shrank  still  smaller. 

"No,"  she  trembled;  "no,  he  didn't  leave  a 
will." 

"  Well,  I  sha'n't  change  mine,  'Melia."  He  spoke 
with  an  ostentatious  lightness,  but  Amelia  was 
aware  that  his  mind  labored  in  heavy  seas  of  old 
regret,  buoyed  by  the  futile  hope  of  compensat 
ing  her  age  for  the  joys  her  youth  had  lacked. 
"  I  guess  I  '11  let  it  stand  as  't  is,  an',  long  as  you 
don't  need  what  I  Ve  left  ye,  why,  you  can  put 
it  into  some  kind  o'  folderol  an'  enjoy  it.  You 
was  always  one  to  enjoy  things." 

They  sat  a  long  time  at  the  table,  and  Jared 
took,  as  he  said,  more  coffee  than  was  good  for 
him,  and  praised  the  making  of  it.  Then  he  fol 
lowed  her  about  as  she  cleared  away,  and  helped 
her  a  little  with  an  awkward  hand.  Amelia  left 
the  dishes  in  the  sink. 


THE  PLAY  HOUSE  15 

"  I  won't  clear  up  till  night,"  she  said.  "  We 
ain't  talked  out  yet." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  garden,  and  under  the 
grape-trellis,  where  the  tall  lilac-hedge  shut  them 
from  the  sight  of  passers-by,  she  gave  him  old 
lady  Knowles's  great  armchair,  and  took  the  little 
one  that  was  hers  when  she  came  over  to  sit  a 
while  with  her  old  friend.  The  talk  went  wander 
ing  back  as  if  it  sought  the  very  sources  of  youth 
and  life ;  but  somehow  it  touched  commonplaces 
only.  Yet  Amelia  had  the  sense,  and  she  was  sure 
he  had,  too,  of  wandering  there  hand  in  hand,  of 
finding  no  surprises,  but  only  the  old  things  grown 
more  dear,  the  old  loyalties  the  more  abiding. 

Suddenly  he  spoke,  haltingly,  voicing  her  own 
conviction. 

"  Don't  seem  but  a  minute,  'Melia,  sence  we  set 
talkin'  things  over,  much  as  we  do  now.  Seems  if 
we  had  n't  been  so  fur  separated  all  these  years." 

"  No,"  said  Amelia,  with  her  beautiful  sincerity, 
"I  don't  believe  we  have  been,  Jared.  Maybe 
that 's  how  it  is  when  folks  die.  We  can't  see  'em 
nor  speak  to  'em,  but  maybe  they  go  right  along 
bein'  what  we  like  best.  I  know  'tis  so  with 
mother.  Seems  if,  if  she  walked  in  here  this  min 
ute,  we  should  n't  have  so  very  many  stitches  to 
take  up.  Sometimes  I  've  thought  all  I  should  say 
would  be,  '  Well,  mother,  you  've  got  back,  ain't 
you  ? '  Kinder  like  that." 


16  COUNTEY  NEIGHBOES 

The  beautiful  afternoon  light  lay  on  the  grass 
and  turned  the  grapevine  to  a  tender  green. 
Jared  looked  upon  the  land  as  if  he  were  treas 
uring  it  in  his  heart  for  a  day  of  loss.  When  the 
sun  was  low,  and  green  and  red  were  flaming  in 
the  west,  he  rose. 

"  Well,  'Melia,"  he  said,  "  I  've  seen  you.  Now 
I  '11  go." 

Amelia  stirred,  too,  recalled  to  service. 

"  I  want  to  make  you  a  cup  o'  tea,"  she  said. 
"  You  get  me  a  pail  o'  fresh  water,  Jared.  'T  won't 
take  but  a  minute." 

He  followed  her  about,  this  time,  while  she  set 
the  table;  and  again  they  broke  bread  together. 
When  he  rose  from  his  chair  now,  it  was  for  good. 

"  Well,  'Melia,"  he  said;  and  she  gave  him  her 
hand. 

She  went  with  him  to  the  door,  and  stood  there 
as  he  started  down  the  path.  Halfway  he  hesi 
tated,  and  then  came  back  to  her.  His  eyes  were 
soft  and  kindly. 

"  'Melia,"  he  said,  "  I  ain't  told  you  the  half,  an' 
I  dunno  's  I  can  tell  it  now.  I  never  knew  how 
things  were  with  you.  I  've  laid  awake  nights, 
wonderin'.  You  never  was  very  strong.  '  Why,' 
says  I  to  myself  many  a  night  when  I  'd  hear  the 
wind  blowin'  ag'inst  the  winder,  '  mebbe  she  's 
had  to  go  out  to  work.  Mebbe  she  ain't  got  a  place 
to  lay  her  head.' ': 


THE  PLAY  HOUSE  17 

He  was  rushing  on  in  a  full  tide  of  confidence, 
and  she  recalled  him.  She  leaned  forward  to  him, 
out  of  the  doorway  of  her  beautiful  house,  and 
spoke  in  an  assuring  tone. 

"  Don't  you  worry  no  more,  Jared.  I  'm  safe 
an'  well  content,  an'  you  ain't  got  nothin'  to  re 
gret.  An'  when  we  meet  again, —  I  guess  't  won't 
be  here,  dear,  it  '11  be  t'  other  side,  —  why,  we  '11 
sit  down  an'  have  another  dish  o'  talk." 

Then  they  shook  hands  again,  and  Jared 
walked  away.  When  he  looked  back  from  the  top 
of  Schoolma'am  Hill,  she  was  still  in  the  door 
way,  and  she  waved  her  hand  to  him. 

After  that  last  glimpse  of  him,  Amelia  went 
soberly  about  the  house,  setting  it  in  order.  When 
her  dishes  were  washed  and  she  had  fed  old  Trot, 
the  cat,  forgotten  all  day,  she  rolled  up  the  fine 
tablecloth  and  left  it  behind  the  porch-door, 
where  she  could  take  it  on  her  way  home.  Then 
she  sat  down  on  the  front  steps  and  waited  for 
old  lady  Knowles.  Amelia  did  not  think  very 
much  about  her  day.  It  was  still  a  possession  to 
be  laid  aside  and  pondered  over  all  the  hours  and 
days  until  she  died.  For  there  would  be  no  other 
day  like  it. 

The  dusk  fell  and  the  sounds  of  night  began 
to  rise  in  their  poignant  summoning  of  memory 
and  hope.  The  past  and  the  present  seemed  one 
to  her  in  a  beautiful  dream  ;  yet  it  was  not  so 


18  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

much  a  dream  as  life  itself,  a  warm  reality.  Pre 
sently  there  came  the  slow  thud  of  horse's  feet, 
and  the  chaise  turned  in  at  the  yard.  Old  lady 
Knowles  was  in  it,  sitting  prettily  erect,  as  she 
had  driven  away,  and  Ann  was  peering  forward, 
as  she  always  did,  to  see  if  the  house  had  burned 
down  in  their  absence.  John  Trueman,  who  lived 
"  down  the  road,"  was  lounging  along  behind. 
They  had  called  him  as  they  passed,  and  bade 
him  come  to  "tend  the  horse."  Amelia  rose  and 
shook  herself  free  from  the  web  of  her  dream. 
She  hurried  forward  and  at  the  horse-block 
offered  old  lady  Knowles  her  hand. 

"  Anything  happened  ?  "  asked  old  Ann,  mak 
ing  her  way  past  to  the  kitchen. 

Amelia  only  smiled  at  her,  but  she  followed 
old  lady  Knowles  in  at  the  porch-door. 

"We've  had  a  very  enjoyable  day,  Amelia," 
said  the  old  lady,  untying  her  bonnet-strings. 
"  Suppose  you  lay  this  on  the  table.  Ann  must 
brush  it  before  it 's  put  away.  What  is  it  ?  Child, 
child,  what  is  it  ?  " 

Amelia  had  taken  a  fold  of  her  old  friend's 
skirt.  It  would  have  seemed  to  her  a  liberty  to 
touch  her  hand. 

"  Mis'  Knowles,"  she  said, "  I  've  had  company. 
'T  was  somebody  to  see  me,  an'  I  got  dinner  here, 
an'  supper,  too,  an'  I  used  your  best  tablecloth, 
an'  I  'm  goin'  to  do  it  up  so  't  Ann  won't  know. 


THE  PLAY  HOUSE  19 

An'  I  acted  for  all  the  world  as  if  't  was  my  own 
house." 

Old  lady  Knowles  laughed  a  little.  She  had 
never  been  a  woman  to  whom  small  things  seemed 
large,  and  now  very  few  things  were  of  any  size 
at  all. 

"  Who  was  it,  Amelia  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Who 
was  your  company  ?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  Amelia 
heard  her  own  heart  beat.  But  she  answered 
quietly,  — 

"'Twas  JaredBeale." 

There  was  silence  again  while  old  lady  Knowles 
thought  back  over  the  years.  When  she  spoke, 
her  voice  was  very  soft  and  kindly. 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,  Amelia.  You  've  always 
been  a  good  girl.  Run  home,  child,  now,  and 
come  to-morrow.  Good-night." 

Amelia,  out  in  the  path  a  moment  afterwards, 
the  tablecloth  under  her  arm,  could  hardly  be 
lieve  in  what  had  surely  happened  to  her.  Old 
lady  Knowles  had  bent  forward  to  her  ;  her  soft 
lips  had  touched  Amelia's  cheek. 


HIS  FIRST  WIFE 

IT  seemed  to  Lydia  Gale  that  from  the  moment 
she  met  Eben  Jakes  she  understood  what  fun  it 
was  to  laugh.  She  and  her  mother  and  three 
sisters  lived  together  in  a  comfortable  way,  and 
Lydia,  although  she  was  the  youngest,  had  come 
to  feel  that  she  was  declining  into  those  middle 
years  when  beauty  wanes,  and  though  the  desire 
to  charm  may  raise  an  eager  hand,  no  one  will 
stay  to  look.  She  was  a  delicate  blonde,  and  when 
she  began  to  recognize  these  bounds  of  life  she 
faded  a  little  into  a  still  neutrality  that  might  soon 
have  made  an  old  woman  of  her.  The  sisters  were 
dark,  wholesome  wenches,  known  as  trainers  at 
the  gatherings  they  were  always  summoned  to 
enliven  ;  but  Lydia  seldom  found  their  mirth 
exhilarating.  Only  when  Eben  Jakes  appeared 
at  the  door,  that  spring  twilight,  a  droll  look  peer 
ing  from  his  blue  eyes,  and  a  long  forefinger 
smoothing  out  the  smile  from  the  two  lines  in 
his  lean  cheeks,  and  asked,  as  if  there  were 
some  richness  of  humor  in  the  supposition,  "  Any 
body  heard  anything  of  anybody  named  Eunice 
Eliot  round  here  ? "  she  found  her  own  face 
creasing  responsively.  Eunice  Eliot  had  been  her 


HIS  FIRST  WIFE  21 

mother's  maiden  name,  and  it  proved  that  she 
and  Eben's  mother  had  been  schoolmates.  Eben's 
mother  had  died  some  years  before  ;  and  now, 
taking  a  little  trip  with  his  own  horse  and  buggy 
to  peddle  essences  and  see  the  country,  he  had 
included  his  mother's  friend  within  the  circle  of 
his  wandering. 

Mrs.  Gale  had  a  welcome  ready  for  him  and 
for  the  treasured  reminiscences  of  his  mother's 
past,  and  the  three  older  sisters  trained  with  him 
to  their  limit.  Lydia  sat  by  and  listened,  smiling 
all  the  time.  She  thought  Eben's  long,  lank, 
broad-shouldered  figure  very  manly,  and  it 
shocked  her  beyond  speech  to  hear  one  of  the 
trainers  avow  that,  for  her  part,  she  thought  his 
thin,  Yankee  face,  with  its  big  features  and  keen 
eyes,  as  homely  as  a  hedge-fence.  Lydia  said 
nothing,  but  she  wondered  what  people  could 
expect.  She  was  a  greedy  novel-reader,  and  she 
had  shy  thoughts  of  her  own.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  Eben,  who  also  had  passed  his  first  youth, 
must  have  been  a  great  favorite  in  his  day.  Every 
commonplace  betrayal  in  those  intimate  talks 
with  her  mother  served  to  show  her  how  good  he 
had  been,  how  simple  and  true.  He  had  taken 
care  of  his  mother  through  a  long  illness,  and 
then,  after  her  death,  lived  what  must  have  been 
a  dull  life,  but  one  still  dutiful  toward  established 
bonds,  with  old  Betty,  the  "  help  "  of  many  years. 


22  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

Now  Betty  had  died,  and  before  beginning  an 
other  chapter  with  some  domestic  expedient,  he 
had  allowed  himself  this  limited  trip,  to  breathe 
another  air  and  see  the  world.  Lydia  felt  that  he 
had  deserved  his  vacation.  All  the  weary  steps 
to  it,  she  knew,  could  scarcely  have  been  climbed 
so  robustly  save  by  a  hero. 

Eben  had  stayed  a  week,  and  on  the  morning 
set  for  his  leaving,  Mrs.  Gale  and  the  three 
trainers  harnessed  in  haste  to  drive  over  to  Fair 
fax  to  see  the  circus  come  in.  Lydia  had  refused 
to  go,  because,  for  some  reason,  she  felt  a  little 
dull  that  morning,  and  Eben  had  soberly  declared 
his  peddling  would  take  him  another  way.  He 
meant  to  be  off  before  the  middle  of  the  fore 
noon  ;  and  while  he  was  in  the  barn,  foddering 
his  horse  and  greasing  the  wheels,  Lydia  be 
thought  her  how  he  had  praised  the  doughnuts 
several  nights  before,  and,  with  an  aching  im 
pulse  to  do  something  for  him  before  he  should 
go,  hastily  made  up  a  batch,  judging  that  a  dozen 
or  so  would  please  him  upon  the  road.  But  she 
was  left-handed  that  morning,  and  as  she  began 
to  fry,  the  fat  caught  fire.  Then  Eben,  seeing  the 
blaze  and  smoke,  dashed  in,  set  the  kettle  safely 
in  the  sink,  and  took  Lydia  into  his  arms. 

"  Say,"  he  whispered  to  her  hidden  face, "  what 
if  you  an'  me  should  get  married  an'  go  round 
some  peddlin',  an'  make  our  way  home  towards 
fell?" 


HIS  FIEST  WIFE  23 

Lydia  felt  that  this  was  the  most  beautiful  in 
vitation  that  could  possibly  have  been  given  her, 
and  she  answered  accordingly:  — 

"  I  'd  like  it  ever  so  much." 

Within  the  next  week  they  were  married,  and 
set  out  on  their  enchanted  progress,  stopping 
at  doors  when  they  liked,  and  offering  bottles 
whereof  the  labels  sounded  delicious  and  sweet; 
or  if  a  house  looked  poor  or  stingy,  passing  it 
by.  Sometimes,  when  Lydia  felt  very  daring, 
she  went  to  the  door  herself  to  show  her  wares, 
and  Eben  stayed  in  the  carriage  and  laughed. 
He  said  she  offered  a  bottle  of  vanilla  as  if  it 
were  poison  and  she  wanted  to  get  rid  of  it,  or 
as  if  it  were  water,  and  of  no  use  to  anybody. 
Once,  when  she  had  been  denied  by  a  sour- 
faced  woman,  he  stopped  under  the  shade  of  a 
tree  farther  on,  and  left  Lydia  there  while  he 
went  back  and,  by  force  of  his  smile  and  per 
suasive  tongue,  sold  the  same  bottle  to  the  same 
woman,  and  came  back  chuckling  in  a  merry 
triumph. 

This  was  the  day  that  Lydia's  summer  happi 
ness  felt  the  touch  of  blight.  She  remembered 
always  just  the  moment  when  the  wind  of 
trouble  touched  her.  They  were  driving  through 
a  long  stretch  of  maple  woods  with  a  ravine  be 
low,  where  ferns  grew  darkly  and  water  hurried 
over  rocks.  Lydia  was  lying  back  in  the  car- 


24  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

riage,  swaying  with  its  motion,  and  jubilant  to 
her  finger-tips.  It  was  young  summer  now,  and 
she  answered  back  every  pulse  of  the  stirring 
earth  with  heart-beats  of  her  own.  Eben  was 
laughing. 

"  That  's  the  way  to  do  it,"  he  was  saying,  in 
an  exaggerated  triumph.  "  Why,  you  've  got  to 
talk  to  'em  till  they  think  that  bottle  o'  vanilla  's 
the  water  o'  life,  an'  they  '11  have  to  knife  ye  if 
they  can't  git  it  no  other  way." 

"  You're  a  born  peddler,"  smiled Lydia.  Then 
she  asked,  "  How  'd  you  happen  to  start  out  ?  " 
She  had  heard  the  simple  reason  many  times; 
but  she  loved  his  talk,  and  her  idle  mind  pre 
ferred  old  tales  to  new. 

Eben  fell  in  with  her  mood,  as  one  begins  an 
accustomed  story  to  a  child. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  and  he  sobered  a  little,  as 
memory  recalled  him,  "  you  know,  when  mother 
died,  old  Betty  stayed  an'  kep'  house  for  me. 
An'  when  she  died,  this  last  spring,  I  kinder 
thought  I'd  git  over  it  sooner  if  I  traveled 
round  a  mite  to  see  the  sights.  I  did  n't  want  to 
git  too  fur  for  fear  I  'd  be  sick  on 't,  like  the  fel 
ler  that  started  off  to  go  round  the  world,  an' 
run  home  to  spend  the  first  night.  You  sleepy 
now  ?  " 

He  had  shrewdly  learned  that  she  liked  long, 
dull  stories  to  lull  her  into  the  swing  of  a  nap. 


HIS  FIRST  WIFE  25 

"  No,"  said  Lydia  drowsily.  "  You  go  on. 
Then  what?" 

"  Well,  so  I  got  Jim  Ross  to  take  over  the 
stock  an*  run  the  farm  to  the  halves.  I  took 
along  a  few  essences  to  give  me  suthin'  to  think 
about,  an'  when  I  got  tired  o'  rovin'  I  expected 
to  turn  back  home  an' begin  bachin'  on't  same  's 
I  'd  got  to  end.  An'  then  I  stopped  at  your 
mother's  to  kinder  talk  over  old  times  when  my 
mother  was  little;  an'  you  come  to  the  door  an' 
let  me  in." 

"Eben,".  said  Lydia,  out  of  her  dream  and 
with  all  her  story-book  knowledge  at  hand, 
"  don't  you  s'pose  't  was  ordered  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  Don't  you  s'pose  't  was  just  put  into  your 
head  to  start  out  that  way  so  't  you  could  come 
an' find  — me?" 

She  spoke  timidly,  but  Eben  answered  with 
the  bluff  certainty  he  had  in  readiness  for  such 
speculations :  — 

"Ain't  a  doubt  of  it.  Sleepy  now ? " 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  as  she  lay  back 
against  the  little  pillow  he  had  bought  for  her 
on  the  way.  The  sun  and  wind  had  overlaid  the 
delicate  bloom  of  her  cheek  with  rose.  The 
morning  damp  had  curled  her  hair  into  rings. 
Something  known  as  happiness,  for  want  of  a 
better  word,  hovered  about  the  curves  of  her 


26  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

mouth  and  looked  shyly  out  from  under  her  lids. 
Eben  felt  his  heart  stir  wonderfully.  He  bent 
toward  her  and  spoke  half  breathlessly. 

"  Say,  Lyddy,  I  don't  know  's  I  knew  half  how 
pretty  you  were."  Then  he  laughed  a  little,  as 
if  he  were  ashamed.  He  was  not  a  man  of 
words,  save  only  when  he  was  joking.  Thus  far 
his  fondness  for  her  had  found  expression  in  an 
unfailing  service  and  in  mute  caresses.  He  spoke 
bluntly  now,  chirruping  to  the  horse :  "  I  dunno  's 
ever  I  see  any  eyes  quite  so  blue  — unless 't  was 
my  first  wife's." 

It  was  as  if  a  sponge  had  passed  over  the  quiv 
ering  beauty  of  the  earth  and  wiped  it  out.  For 
the  moment  Lydia  felt  as  if  she  were  not  his 
wife  at  all.  At  her  silence,  Eben  turned  and 
glanced  at  her;  but  her  eyes  were  closed. 

"  Tired? "he  asked  fondly,  and  she  faltered:  — 

"I  guess  so." 

Then,  according  to  a  tender  custom,  he  put 
his  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  to  him,  and 
while  he  thought  she  slept,  she  lay  there,  her 
eyes  closed  against  his  breast,  and  the  hard  cer 
tainty  upon  her  of  something  to  think  about. 
Blankness  had  seized  upon  her,  not  because  he 
had  married  a  woman  before  her,  but  because  he 
had  not  told.  Possibly  he  had  told  her  mother  in 
some  of  their  desultory  talks  and  had  forgotten 
to  say  more.  The  chill  wonder  of  it  sprang  from 


HIS  FIEST   WIFE  27 

her  learning  it  too  late.  She  had  to  adapt  herself 
to  a  new  man.  Until  now  she  had  believed  that 
it  was  spring  with  them,  and  that  he  had  waited 
for  her  with  an  involuntary  fealty,  as  she  had 
done  for  him.  They  had  every  guerdon  of  young 
love,  except  that  there  were  not  so  many  years 
before  them.  But  even  that  paled  beside  the  tri 
umphant  sense  that  no  boy  or  girl  could  possibly 
be  as  happy  as  they,  with  their  ripened  patience 
and  sense  of  fun.  A  phrase  came  into  her  mind 
as  she  lay  there  against  his  heart  and  knew  he 
was  driving  slowly  to  let  her  rest :  "  the  wife  of 
his  youth."  It  hurt  her  keenly,  and  she  caught 
a  breath  so  sharp  and  sudden  that  he  drew  her 
closer,  as  one  stirs  a  child  to  let  it  fall  into  an 
easier  pose. 

That  day  they  stopped  at  an  old-fashioned 
tavern  in  a  drowsy  town,  and  Lydia,  after  din 
ner,  where  she  talked  quite  gayly  about  the 
house  and  the  garden  and  the  farther  hills,  said 
she  thought  she  would  go  upstairs  and  lie  down 
a  spell.  Eben  looked  at  her  with  concern.  She 
was  always  as  ready  as  he  for  "poking  about" 
new  places. 

"Ain't  you  feelin'  well?"  he  asked  her. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Lydia,  "I'm  all  right.  Only 
I  'm  kinder  sleepy.  I  guess  this  air  makes  me. 
It's  higher  up  here  than  'tis  a  few  miles  back." 

"  Yes,"  said  Eben, "  we  Ve  been  kinder  climbin' 


28  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

up  for  some  days.  Well,  you  go  an'  sleep  it  off. 
Do  you  good.  I  '11  have  my  pipe,  an'  then  I  '11 
mog  round  an'  see  'f  I  can't  work  off  a  few  bot 
tles  on  the  unsuspectin'  populace." 

When  Eben  came  home  from  his  successful 
sales,  he  found  a  changeling.  His  wife  was  not 
so  different  in  looks  or  words  as  in  a  subtle 
something  he  could  not  define.  She  laughed  at 
his  jokes,  and  even,  in  a  gentle  way,  ventured 
pleasantries  of  her  own;  but  a  strange  languor 
hung  about  her.  It  might  have  been  called  pa 
tience,  an  acceptance  of  a  situation  rather  than 
her  eager  cheer  in  it. 

"  You  tired?  "  he  asked  her  over  and  over  again 
that  day,  and  she  always  answered :  — 

"  Mebbe  I  am,  a  mite." 

So  they  settled  down  in  the  little  tavern,  and 
while  Eben  took  excursions  round  about  to  place 
his  "  trade,"  she  stayed  behind,  and  either  shut 
herself  upstairs  or  sat  meditatively  in  the  garden. 
What  moved  her  now  was  an  overwhelming 
curiosity.  She  wondered  what  the  first  wife  had 
been  like,  whether  she  could  make  doughnuts, 
and,  above  all,  if  she  had  been  pretty.  Sometimes 
she  remembered,  with  a  wild  impulse  to  tell  him 
because  it  seemed  so  desperately  funny  to  her, 
the  unhappy  couple  that  had  formed  a  part  of 
her  childhood's  memories,  who  used  to  quarrel 
violently  whenever  the  husband  drank  too  much, 


HIS  FIRST  WIFE  29 

and  his  wife,  in  his  helplessness,  used  to  go 
through  his  pockets. 

"  Anybody  can  bear  'most  anything,"  he  used 
to  declare,  as  he  steadied  himself  by  the  gate,  in 
drunken  majesty,  and  addressed  the  school-chil 
dren  in  a  ring,  "  but  goin'  through  anybody's 
pockets.  That 's  more  'n  anybody  ought  to  be 
called  upon  to  bear." 

Lydia  smiled  sorrowfully  upon  herself  in  the 
midst  of  her  daze,  at  the  wonder  whether  she 
also  should  be  tempted  to  go  through  her  hus 
band's  pockets,  not  thriftily,  to  save  his  purse, 
but  to  discover  the  portrait  of  his  first  wife.  Yet 
she  had  resolved  to  ask  him  nothing;  and  then, 
in  the  way  of  womankind,  she  opened  her  lips 
one  day  and  said  the  thing  she  would  not. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  garden  under  the 
pear  tree,  with  beautiful  old  borders,  all  a  lovely 
neglect,  on  both  sides.  Lydia  had  been  talking 
about  flowers,  and  getting  up  now  and  then  to 
pull  a  weed, —  an  ineffectual  service  where  weeds 
were  so  plentiful,  —  and  stopping  to  speak  a 
word  to  a  late  sweet-william,  as  if  it  were  a  child. 
Eben  was  smoking  his  pipe  contentedly  and 
watching  her. 

"You  like  'em,  don't  you?  "  he  said  fondly,  as 
she  came  back  and  took  her  chair  again. 

"  I  guess  I  do,"  said  Lydia.  That  day  she  felt 
particularly  well  and  freed  from  the  assaults  of 


30  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

memory.  The  sun  was  on  her  face  and  she  wel 
comed  it,  and  a  light  breeze  stirred  her  hair. 
"Mother  always  said  I  was  bewitched  over  gar 
dens." 

"  You  shall  have  all  the  land  you  can  take  care 
of,"  he  avowed,  "  an'  you  shall  have  a  hired  man 
of  your  own.  I  can  foretell  his  name.  It  's  Eben 
Jakes." 

Lydia  laughed,  and  he  went  on :  "  We  used  to 
have  a  few  beds,  but  when  mother  was  taken 
away  I  kinder  let  it  slip." 

Suddenly  Lydia  felt  her  heart  beating  htfrd. 
Something  choked  her,  and  her  voice  stuck  in 
her  throat. 

"  Eben,  how  'd  your  mother  look  ?  " 

"What  say?"  asked  Eben.  He  was  shaking 
the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  and  the  tapping  of  the 
bowl  against  his  chair  had  drowned  her  mild 
attempt. 

"  How  did  your  mother  look  ?  " 

He  pursed  his  lips  and  gazed  off  into  the  dis 
tance  of  the  orchard.  Then  he  laughed  a  little  at 
his  own  incompetence. 

"  I  dunno  's  I  can  tell.  I  ain't  much  of  a  hand 
at  that.  She  was  just  kinder  old  an'  pindlin'  to 
other  folks.  But  she  looked  pretty  nice  to  me." 

"  Ain't  you  got  a  photograph  of  her  here  with 
you?" 

He  shook  his  head. 


HIS  FIRST  WIFE  31 

"  I  thought  mebbe  you  'd  carry  one  round." 

"  Mother  never  had  any  real  good  picture," 
said  Eben  meditatively.  "  I  dunno  's  she  ever  set 
for  a  photograph.  She  had  an  ambrotype  taken 
when  she  was  young,  with  kinder  full  sleeves  an' 
her  hair  brought  down  over  her  ears.  No,  mother 
never  had  a  picture  that  was  any  comfort  to  me." 

Then  Lydia  dared  her  first  approach. 

"  Ain't  you  got  any  photographs  here  with  you, 
any  of  your  other  folks  ?  I  'd  like  to  know  how 
they  look." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  No.  They  're  all  to  home.  You  '11  find  'em  in 
the  album  on  the  centre-table.  Gee !  I  hope  the 
house  won't  be  all  full  o'  dust.  I  never  thought, 
when  I  set  out,  I  should  bring  the  quality  back 
with  me." 

But  she  could  not  answer  by  a  lifted  eyelash 
the  veiled  fondness  of  his  tone.  All  his  emotion 
had  this  way  of  taking  little  by-paths,  as  if  he 
skirted  courtship  without  often  finding  the  cour 
age  to  enter  boldly  in.  It  was  delightful  to  her, 
but  at  this  moment  she  could  not  even  listen. 
She  was  too  busy  with  her  own  familiar  quest. 
Now  she  spoke  timidly,  yet  with  a  hidden  pur 
pose. 

"  I  think  pictures  of  folks  are  a  good  deal  of  a 
comfort,  don't  you —  after  death  ?  " 

Eben  made  no  answer  for  a  moment.  He  still 


32  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

gazed  reflectively  outward,  but  whether  it  was 
into  the  future  or  his  hidden  past  she  could  not 
tell. 

"  It 's  queer  about  dyin',"  he  said  at  last. 

She  answe^ed^iiix^muhtujcwigl^  — 

"What  is?" 

"  Why  — "  then  he  paused,  as  if  to  set  his 
thought  in  order.  "  I  can't  tell  jest  what  I  mean. 
Only  folks  can  be  here  to-day  an'  there  to- 
morrer.  An'  they  can  be  all  of  a  bloom  of  health, 
or  handsome  as  a  pictur'  —  an7  lo  ye!  they're 
changed ! " 

A  cold  certainty  settled  upon  her  heart.  The 
first  wife  had,  then,  been  handsome.  Lydia  did 
not  know  whether  acquired  knowledge  was  a 
boon  or  not.  Eben  had  risen,  and  was  standing 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  still  looking  into 
space.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  miles  away. 

"  An'  I  dunno  which  is  the  worst,"  he  was  say 
ing,  "  to  have  'em  come  down  with  a  long  sick 
ness,  or  drop  off  sudden.  I  do,  too.  It 's  worse  to 
see  'em  suffer.  But  when  they  give  right  up  afore 
your  face  an'  eyes  — " 

He  stopped,  and  Lydia  thought  he  shuddered. 
Again  she  knew.  The  first  wife  had  died  sud 
denly,  and  the  memory  of  the  shock  was  too  keen 
upon  him  to  admit  of  speech.  But  he  shook  off 
reflection  as  if  it  had  been  the  dust  of  the  hour. 
Now  he  turned  to  her,  and  the  sweet  recognition 


HIS  FIEST  WIFE  33 

of  his  glance  was  warming  her  anew.  "  Don't 
you  go  an'  play  me  any  such  trick,"  he  said, 
with  the  whimsical  creases  deepening  in  his 
cheeks. 

Yet  she  thought  his  eyes  were  wet. 

"What?" 

"  Dyin'." 

A  new  tenderness  was  born  in  her  at  the  mo 
ment,  seeing  what  he  had  endured. 

"  No,"  she  wanted  to  say,  "  I  hope  you  won't 
have  to  go  through  that  twice."  But  she  only 
shook  her  head  brightly  at  him.  "  Come,"  said 
she,  "  it 's  time  to  harness  up." 

"I  '11  drive  down  through  that  cross-road,"  said 
Eben,  "  an'  then  I  've  finished  up  all  them  little 
byways.  Byme-by,  when  we  feel  like  settin'  out 
for  good,  we  can  pike  right  along  the  old  Boston 
road,  an'  that'll  take  us  to  aunt  Phebe's,  an' 
so  on  home.  But  we  won't  start  out  till  we  're 
good  an'  ready.  I  guess  you  got  kinder  tired 
afore." 

"  I  'm  ready  now,"  said  Lydia.  The  color  was 
in  her  cheeks.  She  felt  dauntless.  At  once,  born 
somehow  from  this  sober  talk,  she  felt  a  melting 
championship  of  him,  as  if  life  had  hurt  him  too 
keenly  and  she  was  there  to  make  it  up  to  him. 
Henceforth  she  meant  to  be  first  and  second 
wife  in  one. 

"  Hooray ! "  called  Eben.    He  tossed  up  his 


34  COUNTEY  NEIGHBOKS 

hat;  and  the  tavern-keeper's  wife,  making  pies 
by  the  kitchen  window,  smiled  at  him  and  shook 
her  rolling-pin.  "  Then  we'll  start  off  to-morrer, 
bright  an'  early.  I  don't  know  how  you  feel,  Mis' 
Jakes,  but  I  'm  possessed  to  git  home." 

Lydia,  for  her  part,  was  soberly  glad,  yet  there 
was  a  part  of  her  anticipation  that  was  incredible 
to  her.  For  even  after  her  spiritual  uplift  of  the 
moment  before,  the  first  thought  that  throbbed 
into  her  mind,  like  a  temptation,  was  that  of  the 
album  on  the  centre-table. 

They  drove  off  in  the  morning  brightness,  and 
Eben  declared  he  had  a  good  mind  to  give  away 
his  remaining  essences  and  put  for  home  as  hard 
as  he  could  pelt. 

"  We  might  cut  right  across  country,"  he 
tempted  himself.  "  No  matter  'f  we  have  planned 
suthin'  different.  But  then  we  could  n't  see  aunt 
Phebe." 

"  You  ?re  real  fond  of  her,  ain't  you  ?  "  asked 
Lydia  absently.  She  was  wondering  if  aunt 
Phebe  would  speak  of  his  first  wife. 

"  She  was  mother's  only  sister,"  said  Eben,  in 
the  deeper  tone  attendant  on  his  mother's  name. 
"She  took  care  of  mother  in  her  last  days.  I 
guess  we  never  had  a  mite  o'  family  trouble  but 
aunt  Phebe  was  there  about  as  soon  as  she  could 
board  the  train." 

"Eben,"  said  his  wife,  in  her  timid  way  of 


HIS  FIEST  WIFE  35 

stealing  on  his  confidence.  It  seemed  now  like 
a  shy  fashion  of  convincing  him  that  she  was 
worthy,  if  he  would  but  let  her,  to  know  his 
heart. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Don't  you  think  some  things — some  troubles 
—  are  too  hard  to  be  talked  about  ?  " 

"I  guess  they  be,"  assented  Eben. 

"  We  keep  thinkin'  an'  thinkin'  'em  over,  but 
we  can't  speak.  Mebbe  't  would  be  better  for  us 
if  we  could." 

"Mebbe  'twould."  Then  he  pulled  out  his 
pipe,  as  he  did  when  the  chariot  of  his  affections 
neared  an  emotional  pass.  Eben  was  willing  to 
graze  a  wheel  by  that  abyss,  but  he  skillfully 
avoided  falling  over. 

They  were  climbing  a  long  hill ;  and  the  horse, 
head  down,  sagged  sleepily  along,  pulling  faith 
fully.  But  at  the  top  he  halted,  as  if  it  seemed 
he  knew  what  was  below,  and  waited  for  their 
wonder.  Lydia's  eyes  were  closed,  and  Eben  had 
drawn  the  first  puff  at  his  pipe. 

"There,"  said  he,  "what  think  o'  that?" 

Lydia  opened  her  eyes  and  gave  a  little  cry. 
They  seemed  to  be  at  the  top  of  everything,  — 
winding  roads,  like  ribbons,  patches  of  green 
that  were  ample  woods,  three  dotted  villages, 
and,  full  flare  in  their  faces,  the  sunset  sky.  The 
red  and  gold  of  it  had  spread  and  lavished  until 


36  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

the  eye,  to  rest  itself,  was  almost  forced,  for  a 
calming  glimpse,  back  again  to  the  cold  blue  east. 
Lydia  looked  and  could  not  speak.  Eben  knew 
too  much  even  to  glance  at  her.  He  felt  all  the 
wonder  of  it,  and  the  pride,  for  it  seemed  to  him 
that  it  was,  in  a  way,  his  sky,  because  it  was  so 
much  nearer  home.  They  stayed  there  in  silence 
while  the  beauty  changed  but  never  faded,  and 
the  horse  dropped  his  head,  to  rest. 

"Well,"  said  Eben  at  last,  dryly,  "  I  dunno's 
ever  I  see  such  a  sky  as  that,  unless  't  was  some 
I  used  to  see  with  my  first  wife." 

For  the  first  time  he  seemed  cruel.  A  bitter 
thought  shot  up  in  Lydia's  heart  that  at  every 
feast  there  was  to  be  the  unbidden  guest.  She 
closed  her  eyes,  and  when  she  opened  them 
again,  the  sky  had  faded  and  the  air  was  chill. 

"  I  guess  you  're  gittin'  tired  again,"  said 
Eben  tenderly.  "  Well,  we  '11  be  to  aunt  Phebe's 
by  eight,  an'  she  '11  put  you  straight  to  bed." 

The  tears  had  wet  her  cheeks.  They  were  the 
first  she  had  shown  him,  and  he  looked  at  them 
with  dismay.  "Hullo!"  he  cried,  "hullo!"  It 
was  actual  terror  in  his  voice.  "  'T  ain't  so  bad 
as  that!" 

Lydia  straightened  herself  in  the  buggy  and 
wiped  away  the  tears  with  an  impatient  hand. 

"  I  guess  ?t  was  the  sunset,"  she  said  tremu 
lously.  "  I  never  see  such  a  sky." 


HIS  FIRST  WIFE  37 

"  That  all  ?"  Eben  was  much  relieved.  Then 
he  touched  up  the  horse,  and  told  him  what  a  lot 
of  oats  were  waiting  in  aunt  Phebe's  barn.  "  If 
that 's  all,"  he  said,  giving  his  mind  to  Lydia 
again,  "you'll  have  to  spend  most  o'  your  time 
in  salt  water.  That's  the  kind  o'  sunsets  we're 
goin'  to  have  every  night  arter  we  get  home. 
The  doctor 's  ordered  'em." 

Lydia  made  herself  laugh,  and  they  talked  no 
more  until  they  drove  up  to  a  prosperous  white 
house  on  the  outskirts  of  the  first  village,  and 
aunt  Phebe  came  to  meet  them.  It  was  all  a  joy 
ous  tumult  that  night,  and  Lydia  went  to  bed 
early,  with  a  confused  sense  that  aunt  Phebe  was 
very  kind  and  that  she  had  gold-bowed  glasses 
and  shook  the  floor  when  she  walked,  and  that 
the  supper  was  a  product  of  expert  cooking. 
Eben  was  uproariously  gay,  in  the  degree  of  ap 
proaching  home,  and  took  aunt  Phebe  about  the 
waist  to  waltz  with  her,  whereupon  she  cuffed 
him  with  a  futile  hand,  remarking :  — 

"  Eben  Jakes,  I  'd  be  ashamed ! " 

Lydia  had  a  sense  of  being  in  a  homely  para 
dise  where  everything  was  pleasantly  at  one,  yet 
that  she,  companioned  by  the  unclassified  mem 
ory  of  a  woman  whose  place  she  held,  had  no 
part  in  the  general  harmony.  Next  morning  she 
overslept,  and  found  herself  alone.  She  heard 
Eben's  whistle  from  the  barn  and  the  guffaw  of 


38  COUNTEY  NEIGHBOES 

the  hired  men,  to  whom  he  was  telling  pleasant 
tales,  and  there  were  women's  voices  from  the 
kitchen,  and  the  fragrance  of  frying  ham.  She 
dressed  in  haste,  and  when  she  went  down  the 
breakfast-table  was  ready,  in  great  abundance, 
and  everybody  waiting  by  their  plates:  Eben, 
aunt  Phebe  and  her  mild,  soft-spoken  husband, 
and  Sarah,  the  spectacled  spinster  daughter,  who 
looked  benevolently  dignified  enough  to  be  her 
mother's  mother. 

"Late  ?  I  guess  not,"  said  aunt  Phebe,  sink 
ing  into  the  chair  behind  the  coffee-pot.  "  Folks 
get  up  here  when  they  're  a  mind  to,  an'  when  it 
comes  to  Eben's  wife  —  well,  you  can't  say  no 
more  'n  that  in  this  house." 

Lydia  took  her  place  rather  shyly,  but  when 
Eben  had  found  her  hand  under  the  tablecloth 
and  given  it  a  welcoming  squeeze,  she  felt  more 
than  half  at  home.  Aunt  Phebe  passed  coffee, 
and  beamed,  and  forgot  to  serve  herself  in  press 
ing  food  upon  the  others;  but  when  the  first 
pause  came,  she  leaned  back  and  smiled  at  her 
new  niece.  Lydia  looked  up.  She  met  the  smile 
and  liked  it.  Aunt  Phebe  seemed  a  good  deal 
more  than  a  mother  to  the  nice  spinster  daughter. 
She  looked  as  if  there  were  mother-stuff  enough 
in  her  to  pass  around  and  nourish  and  bless  the 
world.  Aunt  Phebe  was  speaking. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  "  I  did  n't  have  more  'n  half 


HIS  FIRST  WIFE  39 

a  glimpse  at  you  last  night,  Lyddy,  such  a  sur 
prise  an'  all,  an'  I  had  this  mornin'  to  look  for'ard 
to.  An'  now  I  'm  goin'  to  take  my  time  an'  see 
for  myself  what  kind  of  a  wife  Eben  's  be'n  an' 
picked  out." 

She  was  laughing  richly  all  through  the  words, 
and  Lydia,  though  she  was  blushing,  liked  the 
sound  of  it.  She  felt  quite  equal  to  the  scrutiny. 
She  knew  the  days  of  driving  had  given  her  a 
color,  and  she  was  not  unconscious  of  her  new 
blue  waist.  Then,  too,  Eben's  hand  was  again 
on  hers  under  the  friendly  cloth.  Aunt  Phebe 
looked,  took  off  her  glasses,  pretended  to  wipe 
them,  and  looked  again. 

"  Well,  Eben,"  said  she  judicially,  "  I  '11  say 
this  for  ye,  you  've  done  well." 

"  Pretty  good-lookin'  old  lady,  I  think  myself," 
said  Eben,  with  a  proud  carelessness.  "  Course 
she 's  nothin'  to  what  my  first  wife  was  at  her 
age;  but  then,  nobody  'd  expect  that  kind  o' 
luck  twice.  Aunt  Phebe,  here 's  my  cup.  You 
make  it  jest  like  the  first,  or  you  '11  hear  from 


me." 


Lydia  drooped  over  her  plate.  If  Eben  had 
sought  her  hand  then,  she  would  have  snatched 
it  away  from  him.  All  the  delicate  instincts  within 
her  felt  suddenly  outraged.  At  last  she  acknow 
ledged  to  herself,  in  a  flash,  how  coarse-minded 
he  must  be  to  mingle  the  present  with  his  sacred 


40  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

past.  But  she  started  and  involuntarily  looked 
up.  The  spinster  cousin  was  giggling  like  a 
girl. 

"  Now  you  Ve  got  back,"  she  was  saying  to 
Eben.  "  Now  I  know  it  's  you,  sure  enough.  He 
took  that  up  when  he  wa'n't  hardly  out  o'  pina 
fores,"  she  said  to  Lydia. 

"  What  ?  "  Lydia  managed,  through  her  anger 
at  him. 

"  ComparuV  everything  with  his  first  wife. 
Where  'd  he  get  it,  mother?  " 

"  Why,"  said  aunt  Phebe,  "there  was  that  old 
Simeon  Spence  that  used  to  come  round  clock- 
mendin'.  He  was  forever  tellin'  what  his  first  wife 
used  to  do,  an'  Eben  he  ketched  it  up,  an'  then, 
when  we  laughed  at  him,  he  done  it  the  more. 
Land  o'  love,  Lyddy,  you  chokin'  ?  " 

Lydia  was  sobbing  and  laughing  together,  and 
Eben  turned  in  a  panic  from  his  talk  with  uncle 
Sim,  to  pound  her  back. 

"  No,  no,"  she  kept  saying.  "  I  'm  all  right. 
No !  no  ! " 

"  Suthin'  went  the  wrong  way,"  commiserated 
aunt  Phebe,  when  they  were  all  in  their  places 
again  and  Lydia  had  wiped  her  eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  Lydia  joyously,  as  if  choking 
were  a  very  happy  matter.  "  It  went  the  wrong 
way.  Eben,  you  pass  aunt  Phebe  my  cup." 

And  while  the  coffee  was  coming  she  sought 


HIS  FIEST  WIFE  41 

out  Eben's  hand  again  and  turned  to  gaze  at  him 
with  such  telltale  eyes  that  the  spinster  cousin, 
blushing  a  little,  looked  at  once  away,  and  won 
dered  how  it  would  seem  to  be  so  foolish  and  so 
fond. 


A  FLOWER  OF  APRIL 

ELLEN  WITHLNTGTON  and  her  mother  lived  in  a 
garden.  There  was  a  house  behind  it,  with  great 
white  pillars  like  a  temple,  but  it  played  a  sec 
ondary  part  to  that  sweet  inclosure  —  all  bees 
and  blossoms.  Ellen  and  her  mother  duly  slept 
in  the  house,  and  through  the  barren  months  it 
did  very  well  for  shelter  while  they  talked  of 
slips  and  bulbs  and  thirsted  over  the  seed-cata 
logue  come  by  mail.  But  from  the  true  birth  of 
the  year  to  the  next  frost  they  were  steadily  out- 
of-doors,  weeding,  tending,  transplanting,  with 
an  untiring  passion.  All  the  blossoms  New  Eng 
land  counts  her  dearest  grew  from  that  ancient 
mould,  enriched  with  every  spring.  Ladies'-de- 
lights  forgathered  underneath  the  hedge,  and 
lilies-of -the- valley  were  rank  with  chill  sweetness 
in  their  time.  The  flowering  currant  breathed 
like  fruitage  from  the  East,  and  there  were  never 
such  peonies,  such  poppies,  and  such  dahlias  in 
all  the  town. 

Ellen  herself  had  an  apple-bloom  face,  and 
violet  eyes  down-dropped ;  some  one  said  their 
lashes  were  long  enough  to  braid.  Fine  gold  hair 
flew  about  her  temples,  and  her  innocent  chin 


A  FLOWER  OF  APRIL  43 

sank  chastely  like  a  nun's.  She  and  her  mother 
never  had  a  minute  for  thinking  about  clothes, 
and  so  they  wore  soft  sad-colored  stuffs  rather 
like  the  earth ;  but  these  quite  satisfied  Ellen, 
because  they  were  warm  or  cool  to  suit  the 
weather,  and  beauty,  she  thought,  grew  only 
from  the  ground. 

One  spring  twilight  Mrs.  Withington  was  put 
ting  out  her  geraniums,  while  Ellen  leaned  over 
the  gate  and  talked  with  Susan  Long.  The  frogs 
were  peeping  down  by  the  mill,  and  a  breath  of 
dampness  came  from  the  upturned  soil.  Susan 
Long  was  the  only  one  of  the  old  schoolgirls 
with  whom  Ellen  had  kept  any  semblance  of 
intimacy  ;  the  rest  of  them  thought  her  oddly 
unsuited  to  their  grown-up  pastimes.  She  was 
like  a  bud,  all  close  and  green,  while  they  flared 
their  petals  to  the  sun  and  begged  for  cherish 
ing. 

"  Just  think,"  said  Ellen  in  her  reedy  voice, 
never  loud  enough  to  be  heard  at  "teacher's 
desk"  in  school,  "while  we've  been  standing 
here  three  couples  have  gone  by.  I  never  saw 
so  much  pairing  off." 

Susan  laughed  exuberantly.  She  was  a  big 
girl,  with  a  mariner's  walk  and  hard  red  cheeks. 

"  Anybody  but  you  'd  seen  'em  a  good  many 
times,"  she  remarked.  "If  you  ain't  the  queer 
est  !  AYhy,  they  're  fellers  and  girls ! " 


44  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,"  said  Ellen  innocently.  "  One 
was  John  Davis  and  Maria  Orne,  one  was — " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that !  I  mean  they  're  goin' 
together.  Ain't  you  heard  what  old  uncle  Zeph- 
aniah  said  down  to  the  Ridge  ?  He  told  father 
this  year  'd  be  known  as  the  time  o'  the  flood,  all 
creation  walkin'  two  and  two.  Why,  everybody 
in  Countisbury  's  gettin'  married.  Courtin'  begun 
in  the  fall,  with  singin'-school,  and  this  is  the  up 
shot.  What  do  you  s'pose  I'm  waitin'  here  for, 
'sides  talkin'  with  you?  Just  hold  on  a  minute 
and  you  '11  see  Milt  Richardson  pokin'  along  this 
way.  Then  there  '11  be  four  couples  instead  o' 
three." 

"  O  Sue !  "  said  Ellen,  in  a  little  bruised  tone. 
She  felt  disturbed,  as  if  the  spring  twilight  had 
in  some  manner  turned  to  a  much-revealing  day. 
Sue  leaned  over  the  gate  and  whispered  rapidly : 

"I'll  tell  you  somethin'  else,  only  don't  you  let 
it  go  no  further.  Mother  says  might  as  well  not 
count  your  chickens  till  they  're  hatched,  and 
aunt  Templeton  was  left  at  the  meetin'-house 
door.  He  asked  me  seven  weeks  ago  come 
Wednesday,  and  I've  got  lots  of  my  sewin' 
done.  Some  of  my  trimmin'  's  real  pretty.  You 
come  over'n'  see  it.  Good-by.  Don't  you  tell." 

She  walked  carelessly  away  down  the  road, 
not  casting  a  glance  behind.  But  Milton  was 
coming,  a  tall  fellow,  like  his  sweetheart  heavy 


A  FLOWER  OF  APRIL  45 

and  honest  of  face.  They  might  have  been 
brother  and  sister  for  the  likeness  between 
them. 

Ellen  withdrew  from  the  gate  and  hurried  back 
to  her  mother.  "  Come,"  she  urged  hastily, "  let 's 
go  in." 

Mrs.  Withington  was  bent  almost  double, 
pressing  the  earth  about  the  cramped  geranium 
roots.  She  felt  the  delight  of  their  freedom,  with 
all  the  world  to  spread  in. 

"  I  ain't  got  quite  through,"  she  said,  without 
looking  up.  "You  cold?  Run  right  along.  I'll 


come." 


But  Ellen  only  flitted  round  the  house  into 
a  deeper  shade  and  waited.  She  hardly  knew 
why,  except  that  she  was  disinclined  to  see 
any  more  people  walking  two  and  two,  with 
that  significant  and  terrifying  future  before 
them. 

The  next  morning,  drawn  by  some  subtle 
power,  she  went  over  to  Susan's,  and  after  sitting 
awhile  on  the  doorstep,  they  slipped  upstairs 
into  the  front  chamber,  and  opened  drawer  after 
drawer  of  fine  white  clothing,  wonderfully 
trimmed. 

"  Long-cloth ! "  said  Susan,  in  a  whisper. 
"  Here  's  some  unbleached.  We  had  it  on  the 
grass  last  year  ;  seemed  as  if  it  never  'd  whiten 
out.  That 's  for  every  day." 


46  COUNTKY  NEIGHBOKS 

Ellen  looked,  in  the  short-breathed  wonder 
which  sometimes  beset  her  over  a  new  blossom. 
She  touched  the  fabric  delicately  and  lifted  an 
edge  of  crocheted  lace. 

"  Let 's  go  over  to  Maria's,"  said  Susan.  "  I  '11 
make  her  show  you  hers." 

They  took  the  short  round  of  the  village  homes 
where  there  were  daughters  young  and  still  un 
wed.  Everywhere  white  cloth,  serpentine  braid, 
and  crocheted  lace !  Truly  it  was  a  marrying  year. 
Ellen  said  very  little,  and  the  girls,  talking 
among  themselves,  forgot  to  notice  her  any  more 
than  a  flower  in  a  vase. 

But  that  late  afternoon  was  very  warm,  and 
when  she  and  her  mother  sat  together  on  the 
steps  considering  rose-bugs,  she  suddenly  broke 
off  to  say,  — 

"  Mother,  should  you  just  as  soon  I  'd  have 
some  new  things,  trimmed  like  the  girls'  ?  " 

Mrs.  Withington  regarded  her  in  wonder. 
Ellen  did  not  lift  her  eyes,  but  a  blush  rose  del 
icately  in  her  cheeks. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  but  what  'twould  be  a 
good  plan,"  said  her  mother,  after  a  pause.  "  You 
ain't  got  an  individual  thing  that 's  trimmed." 

So  next  day  they  walked  the  two  miles  to  town, 
and  for  weeks  thereafter  stayed  indoors,  setting 
stitches  in  snowy  cloth,  with  piles  of  it  drifted 
near.  For  a  time  that  spring,  the  garden  almost 


A  FLOWER  OF  APRIL  47 

ran  to  weeds.  Then,  because  a  long  dormant  con 
sciousness  stirred  in  Mrs.  Withington,  she  went 
into  the  attic  and  brought  down  woven  treasures ; 
and  one  Sunday,  Ellen,  her  cheeks  scarlet  with 
the  excitement  of  it,  walked  to  church  in  a  shot 
silk,  all  blue  and  pink,  and  a  hat  with  a  long  white 
feather  over  her  golden  hair.  There  were  pink 
roses  under  the  brim,  and  they  paled  beside  her 
face. 

"  God  sakes !  "  whispered  Milton  Richardson, 
in  the  singing-seats,  "  Ellen  Withington 's  a 
beauty ! " 

The  girls  rustled  their  starched  petticoats  and 
nudged  one  another. 

"Ain't  she  come  out!  "  said  one;  and  another 
answered,  — 

"  My  stars !  she  's  the  cutest  thing  I  ever  see 
in  all  my  life ! " 

Even  the  minister,  who  was  then  accounted 
an  old  man,  being  between  forty-five  and  fifty, 
stopped  on  his  way  down  the  aisle  where  Ellen 
waited  for  her  mother,  busy  in  matronly  conclave, 
and  shook  hands  with  her. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  out,  my  dear  Ellen," 
said  he.  "  You  have  been  absent  quite  a  while." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  her  blue  eyes  full  of 
wonder ;  everybody  knew  she  had  been  regularly 
to  church  ever  since  she  was  a  little  girl.  But 
the  minister  smiled  warmly  at  her  and  went  on. 


48  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

The  next  Sunday  she  came  to  church  in  a 
foam  of  white  like  a  pear  tree.  That  day  Henry 
Fox,  who  lingered  still  unmated,  strode  up  to 
her  and  remarked,  while  a  cordial  circle  stood 
about  to  hear,  "Pretty  warm  to-day."  This 
was  equivalent  to  "  See  you  home  ?  "  at  evening 
meeting. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  desperately,  "real  warm." 
Then  she  caught  her  mother's  hand  and  clung 
to  it;  and  though  Henry  kept  a  dogged  step  be 
side  them  to  their  gate,  it  was  only  Mrs.  Withing- 
ton  who  spoke. 

When  the  two  women  were  inside  the  great 
cool  sitting-room,  Ellen  was  holding  still  by  that 
hard,  faithful  hand.  "  Mother,"  she  entreated 
breathlessly,  "  I  need  n't  ever  be  with  anybody 
but  you,  need  I  ?  " 

Jealous  arms  were  about  her  even  before  the 
words  had  time  to  come. 

"  No !  no !  you  're  mother's  own  girl." 

The  very  next  Wednesday  Ellen  went  alone 
to  match  some  trimming  ;  her  maiden  outfit 
neared  completion,  and  she  was  in  haste  to  finish 
it.  The  garden  needed  her.  When  she  had  struck 
into  the  pine  woods  on  her  way  home  a  wagon 
rattled  up  behind,  and  Milton  Richardson  called 
out,  "  Ride  ?  " 

She  was  too  timid  to  say,  "No,"  and  so  she 
took  his  hand  and  climbed  up  to  the  seat  beside 


A  FLOWER  OF  APRIL  49 

him.  The  horse  fell  into  a  walk,  and  Ellen 
blushed  more  and  more  because  she  could  not 
think  of  anything  to  say.  Midway  of  the  pines 
the  horse  stood  still. 

"  Le  's  wait  a  minute  in  the  shade,"  said  Milton ; 
and  Ellen,  glancing  swiftly  at  him,  wondered 
why  he  seemed  so  strange.  He  sought  her  eyes 
agajn,  but  she  was  gazing  at  the  pines.  Her 
cheek  was  rosy  red. 

"  You  been  shoppin'  ?  "  he  asked  desperately. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ellen,  grateful  to  him  for  speech, 
wherein  she  was  so  poor.  "  I  went  to  get  some 
braid." 

"  You  makin'  up  pretty  things,  same 's  all  the 
girls  ?  " 

"  I  Ve  made  some." 

Milton  caught  his  breath. 

"  O  Ellen !  "  he  burst  forth,  "  I  wish  you  'd  let 
me  kiss  you  ! " 

Suddenly  she  was  gone  out  of  the  wagon,  like 
a  bird  let  loose  from  an  imprisoning  hand.  He 
saw  her  running  like  a  swift  sweet  sprite  along 
the  darkening  road. 

"  Ellen,  you  hold  on  ! "  he  cried,  whipping  up 
to  follow.  "  I  did  n't  mean  nothin' !  Oh,  you  let 
me  jest  speak  one  word." 

But  at  the  noise  of  his  pursuit  she  fled  over  the 
low  stone  wall,  and  without  a  look  behind,  dipped 
into  the  hollow  on  her  homeward  way.  Milton 


50  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

swore  miserably  and  drove  on.  He  saw  Mrs. 
Withington  gathering  cowslip  greens  in  a  marsh 
sufficiently  removed  from  home,  and  that  heart 
ened  him  to  draw  rein  before  the  still  white  house. 
Ellen  would  be  alone.  When  he  strode  into  the 
sitting-room  she  sprang  up  from  the  lounge 
where  she  had  cast  herself.  The  tears  still  hung 
in  her  long  lashes,  and  her  cheeks  were  white. 

"  My  Lord  !  Ellen  Withington  !  "  he  cried,  in 
a  shamed  and  rough  remorse.  "  Couldn't  you  give 
me  a  chance  to  speak  ?  I  don't  know  what  under 
the  light  o'  the  sun  made  me  say  that.  Only  you 
looked  so  terrible  pretty.  But  you  need  n't  ha' 
took  it  so." 

She  stood  staring  at  him,  fascinated,  one  brown 
hand  trembling  on  her  heart.  Her  eyes  shot  a 
glance  at  the  door  behind  him,  and  he  was  en 
raged  anew  with  pity  of  her. 

"  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  see  a  girl  as 
pretty  as  you  be,"  he  went  on,  as  if  he  scolded 
her,  "  and  all  dressed  up  to  the  nines." 

She  was  still  looking  at  him  dumbly.  She 
saw  beyond  him  the  vista  of  Sue's  broken  life. 

"  Well,  then,  won't  you  be  friends?  "  he  urged. 
"  Great  king !  you  could  n't  be  any  more  offish  if 
I  'd  done  it.  You  need  n't  think  anything 's  altered. 
You  're  the  prettiest  creatur'  that  ever  stepped, 
but  I  wouldn't  give  up  Sue  for  the  Queen  of 
England.  Now  will  you  say  it 's  square  ?  " 


A  FLOWER  OF  APRIL  51 

So  nothing  was  changed.  She  could  not  under 
stand  it,  but  she  nodded  at  him  and  smiled  a  little. 
Her  trembling  did  not  cease  until  he  was  far  upon 
the  road. 

When  Mrs.  Withington  came  home  with  her 
basket  of  greens,  Ellen  had  supper  all  ready,  and 
she  ran  forward  and  held  a  corner  of  her  mother's 
apron  while  they  walked  together  toward  the 
house. 

"  You  look  kind  o'  peaked,"  said  Mrs.  With 
ington  tenderly.  "  What  you  got  on  that  old 
brown  thing  for  ?  " 

"  I  'm  going  to  weed  after  supper,"  Ellen  an 
swered.  "  The  garden  looks  real  bad." 

Mrs.  Withington  gazed  at  her  keenly. 

"  Henry  Fox  asked  if  we  were  goin'  to  be  home 
this  evenin',"  she  said,  with  much  indifference. 
"  I  told  him  I  guessed  so." 

Ellen  held  the  apron  hard. 

UO  mother!"  she  whispered;  "you  see  him. 
I  have  n't  got  to,  have  I  ?  " 

"  Law !  no,  child,"  said  the  other  woman.  "  I 
guess  you  ain't.  You  're  mother's  own  girl." 

So  when  the  dusk  came  Mrs.  Withington  sat 
in  the  parlor  and  talked  of  crops  with  Henry, 
wan  beside  her,  while  Ellen,  safe  at  the  back  of 
the  house,  weeded  a  bed  of  pansies  purpling 
there.  A  soft  after- glow  lighted  all  the  windows 
to  flame,  and  fell  full  upon  the  face  of  one  dark 


52  COTJNTKY  KEIGHBOKS 

flower,  quite  human  in  its  sombre  wistfulness. 
Ellen  knelt  and  kissed  it  tremulously. 

"  You  darling  one !  "  she  murmured  under  her 
breath;  and  somehow  she  knew  that  this  was 
the  only  sort  of  kiss  she  should  ever  want  to 
give. 


THE  AUCTION 

Miss  LETITIA  LAMSON  sat  by  the  open  fire,  at  a 
point  where  she  could  easily  reach  the  tongs  for 
the  adjusting  of  any  vagabond  stick,  and  Cap'n 
Oliver  Drown,  in  the  opposite  angle,  held  do 
minion  over  the  poker.  No  one  else  would  Miss 
Letitia  have  admitted  to  partnership  in  the  man 
aging  of  her  fire ;  but  Cap'n  Oliver  wielded  an  un 
disputed  privilege.  The  poker  suited  him  because 
he  had  a  way,  in  the  heat  of  friendly  dissension, 
of  smashing  a  stick  much  before  it  was  ready  to 
drop  apart  of  its  own  charring;  and  that  Miss 
Letitia  never  resented.  She  herself  was  gentle 
and  persuasive  with  a  fire;  but  the  cap'n's  more 
impetuous  method  seemed  to  belong  to  him,  and 
she  understood,  without  much  thinking  about  it, 
that  when  he  blustered  a  little,  even  over  a  hard 
working  blaze,  it  was  because  he  must.  He  was 
a  tempestuously  organized  creature,  of  a  mar 
tial  front  and  a  baby  heart,  most  fortunate  in  his 
breadth  of  shoulder,  his  height,  and  the  readiness 
of  the  choleric  blood  to  come  into  his  cheeks,  the 
eagerness  of  his  husky  voice  to  bluster. 

These   outward  tokens  of  an  untrammeled 
spirit  helped  him  to  hold  his  own  among  his  kind, 


54  COUNTEY  NEIGHBOKS 

though  his  oldest  friend,  Miss  Letty,  prized  him 
for  different  reasons.  In  her  soul  she  had  always 
regarded  him  as  "  real  cunning,"  and  had  even, 
when  she  passed  to  bring  up  the  dish  of  apples 
from  the  cellar,  or  a  mug  of  cider,  longed  to 
touch  the  queer  lock  that  would  straggle  down 
from  his  sparsely  covered  poll  in  absurd  travesty 
of  a  baby's  tended  curl. 

Probably  no  one,  and  certainly  not  the  captain 
himself,  knew  exactly  how  Miss  Letty  regarded 
him.  Miss  Letty  had  been  forty-seven  years  old 
the  last  November  that  ever  was,  as  she  had  just 
told  him,  in  talking  over  her  forthcoming  de 
parture  from  the  house  where  she  had  lived  all 
the  forty-seven  years ;  and  he  knew,  she  added, 
just  how  she  felt  about  the  place  and  all  that  was 
in  it.  The  cap'n  nodded  gravely,  thinking,  if  it 
paid  to  say  so,  that  he  knew  how  the  town  looked 
upon  her.  She  was  good  as  gold,  the  neighbors 
said,  and  at  that  moment  she  especially  looked 
it,  in  a  still,  serious  way.  She  was  a  wholesome 
woman,  with  nothing  showy  to  commend  her  and 
little  to  remark  except  the  extreme  earnestness 
of  her  upward  glance.  From  her  unconscious 
humility  she  seemed  to  be  always  gazing  up  at 
people,  even  when  their  eyes  were  on  a  level 
with  hers.  It  might  have  indicated  a  habit  of 
mind. 

It  was  only  to-night  that  the  rumor  of  her  go- 


THE  AUCTION  55 

ing  had  reached  Cap'n  Oliver,  and  he  had  come 
in  to  talk  it  over.  Miss  Letty's  heart  quieted  as 
she  saw  him  take  her  father's  capacious  arm 
chair  and  settle  on  the  applique  cushion,  so  sacred 
to  him  that  whenever  the  cat  stole  a  nap  out  of 
it,  stray  hairs  had  to  be  brushed  scrupulously  off, 
lest  Cap'n  Oliver  should  appear  for  an  evening's 
gossip. 

Miss  Letty's  house  was  at  the  end  of  a  narrow 
way,  bordered  by  cinnamon-roses  and  stragglers 
from  old  gardens;  and  some  of  the  neighbors 
said  it  would  make  them  as  nervous  as  a  witch 
to  be  so  far  from  the  road.  But  it  did  not  make 
Miss  Letty  nervous.  For  some  reason,  perhaps 
because  of  long  usage,  it  helped  her  feel  secure. 

"  Well,"  she  was  saying  mildly  to  Cap'n  Oliver, 
"  I  'm  gettin'  along  in  years.  What 's  the  use  of 
denyin'  it?  That 's  what  Ellery  said  in  his  letter. 
*  You  're  'most  fifty,  Aunt  Letty,'  says  he.  '  Time 
to  quit  livin'  alone  an'  come  out  here  an'  let  us 
take  care  o'  you.' ' 

Cap'n  Oliver  scowled  at  the  fire  as  if  he  found 
the  freshly  burning  sticks  too  strong  to  be 
smashed,  and  resented  it. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "I'm  fifty-four.  Let  'em  come 
to  me." 

"  Now,  be  you  really?  "  asked  Miss  Letty,  in 
a  pretty  surprise,  though  she  knew  all  the  calen 
dar  of  his  life  from  the  day  she  went  to  school 


56  COUNTEY  NEIGHBOES 

for  the  first  time  and  heard  him,  in  the  second 
reader,  profusely  interpreting  a  martial  declara 
tion  to  the  Eomans.  "  Well,  who  'd  have  thought 
it!" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Cap'n  Oliver,  staring 
into  the  fire,  "  as  I  'm  any  less  of  a  man  because 
I  'm  fifty-four  years  old.  S'pose  anybody  should 
come  to  me  an'  say:  'Now  you're  fifty-four, 
cap'n.  You  better  shut  up  shop  an'  go  an'  live  in 
Washington  Territory.' ' 

"It  ain't  Washington  Territory,"  said  Miss 
Letty,  setting  him  right  with  a  becoming  air  of 
humility.  "  It 's  Chicago  they  live  to,  Ellery  an' 
Mary." 

"  Be  that  as  it  may,"  said  the  cap'n, "  I  've  eat 
off  my  own  plates  an'  drinked  out  o'  my  own 
cups  a  good  many  year,  an'  if  anybody  should 
try  to  give  me  a  home,  I'll  bet  ye,  Letty,  I'd  be 
as  mad  as  a  hornet.  I  wisht  you  'd  be  mad,  too. 
I  'd  think  more  of  ye  if  ye  was." 

"  You  've  been  blest  in  a  good  housekeeper," 
said  Miss  Letty,  in  a  gentle  recall.  "  It  ain't  many 
men  left  alone  as  you  be  that's  got  anybody 
strong  an'  willin'  like  Sarah  Ann  Douglas  to  heft 
the  burden  an'  lug  it  right  along." 

"  It  ain't  Sarah  Ann  Douglas,"  said  the  cap'n. 
"  Sarah  Ann 's  a  good  girl,  worth  her  weight  in 
gold,  an'  growin'  more  valuable  every  day,  but 
it  ain't  she  that 's  kep'  a  roof  over  my  head.  I  've 


THE  AUCTION  57 

kep'  it  myself  because  I  would  have  it.  So  there 
ye  be." 

"Well,  I  dunno  how  'tis,"  said  Miss  Letty. 
She  was  staring  placidly  into  the  fire.  "  But  I 
don't  seem  to  have  so  much  spirit  as  you  have, 
Oliver.  Seems  to  me,  if  Ellery  an'  Mary  are  goin' 
to  feel  worried  havin'  me  livin'  on  here  alone, 
mebbe  I  'd  better  sell  off  an'  go  back  with  'em. 
That 's  the  way  I  look  at  it." 

"  You  never  had  any  way  of  your  own,"  said 
the  cap'n. 

Miss  Letty  put  out  a  firm,  plump  hand  and 
presented  him  with  the  poker. 

"  That  stick 's  'most  fell  apart,"  she  said  pacifi 
cally.  "Mebbe  you  better  give  it  a  kind  of  a 
knock." 

The  cap'n  did  it  absently  and  was  soothed  by 
the  process.  Then  Miss  Letty  laid  the  shortened 
pieces  together  in  a  workmanlike  way,  and  they 
blazed  afresh. 

"  What  you  goin'  to  do  with  your  things  ?  " 
asked  the  cap'n,  pointing  a  broad  and  expressive 
thumb  about  the  place. 

"  Sell  'em  off.  That 's  what  Ellery  wrote.  He 
says  I  could  have  an  auction  mebbe  a  week  'fore 
Thanksgivin',  —  that 's  about  now,  —  an'  then 
when  he  an'  Mary  come  we  could  all  go  over  to 
cousin  Liza's  to  stay,  an'  start  for  Chicago  from 
there.  Seems  if  't  was  all  complete." 


58  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

The  cap'n  was  staring  at  her. 

"  You  ain't  goin'  to  sell  off  your  things  with 
out  ay  or  no  ?"  he  inquired.  "  Don't  ye  prize  'em 
—  the  table  you've  eat  off  of  an'  chairs  you've 
set  in  sence  you  were  little  ?  " 

Miss  Letty  winced,  and  then  recovered  herself. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "I  do  prize  'em.  But  it  seems 
if  they  'd  got  to  go." 

"  Why  don't  ye  take  'em  with  ye  ?  " 

"  I  could  n't  do  that,  Oliver.  Ellery  has  got 
his  home  furnished  all  complete  —  oak  chamber 
sets  an'  I  dunno  what  all.  There  wouldn't  be  no 
room  for  my  old  sticks." 

The  cap'n  meditated. 

"  Letty,"  said  he  at  length, "  if  there  was  any 
body  you  ever  set  by  after  your  own  father  an' 
mother,  'twas  my  wife  Mary." 

"Yes,"  said  Letty,  with  one  of  her  warmly 
earnest  looks.  "  Mary  an'  I  was  always  a  good 
deal  to  one  another." 

"  Well,  do  you  know  what  she  said  tome  once? 
'T  was  in  her  last  sickness.  She  was  tracin'  back 
over  old  times,  that  year  you  an'  I  was  together 
so  much,  goin'  to  singin'-school  an'  all.  You  had 
a  good  voice,  Letty  —  voice  like  a  bird.  You  re 
collect  that  year,  don't  ye  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Letty.  Her  voice  trembled  a  little. 
"  I  recollect." 

"  That  was  the  spring  Mary  kinder  broke  down 


THE  AUCTION  59 

an'  went  into  a  decline,  an'  you  journeyed  off  to 
Dill  River,  an'  made  that  long  visit.  An'  when 
you  come  back,  Mary  an'  I  was  engaged.  Well, 
I  'm  gettin'  ahead  of  my  story.  What  Mary  said 
was,  'Oliver,'  says  she,  'you  don't  know  half  how 
good  Letty  is.  Nobody  knows  but  me.  It 's  her 
own  fault,'  says  she.  '  She  gives  up  too  much,  an' 
it  makes  the  rest  of  us  selfish.' ': 

"  Did  she  say  that  ? "  asked  Letty.  She  was 
awakened  to  a  vivid  recognition  of  something 
beyond  the  outer  significance  of  the  words.  Then 
she  seemed  to  lay  her  momentary  emotion  aside, 
as  if  it  were  something  she  could  cover  out  of 
sight.  She  laughed  a  little.  "Well,"  she  said,  "I 
guess  I  don't  give  up  much  nowadays.  I  ain't 
got  so  very  much  to  give." 

Cap'n  Oliver  rose  and  carefully  arranged  the 
fire  as  if  there  would  be  no  one  to  do  it  after  he 
was  gone.  Miss  Letty  loved  that  little  custom. 
It  seemed  a  kind  of  special  service,  and  often, 
after  he  had  done  it  and  taken  his  leave,  she 
went  to  bed  earlier  than  she  had  intended  be 
cause,  when  his  fire  had  burned  out,  she  could 
not  bear  to  rearrange  it. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  you  bear  it  in  mind,  what 
Mary  said.  Sometimes  you  give  up  too  much. 
You  've  gi'n  up  all  your  life,  an'  now  you  're  goin' 
to  give  up  to  Ellery  an'  Mary.  You  think  twice, 
Letty,  that 's  all  I  say.  Think  twice." 


60  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

He  shook  hands  with  her  gravely,  according 
to  their  habit,  and  she  heard  his  steps  along  the 
frozen  lane.  Then  she  opened  the  door  softly  a 
crack  —  this  was  old  custom,  too — that  she 
might  hear  them  farther.  This  time  she  was  sure 
she  actually  knew  when  he  turned  into  the  road. 
She  went  back  to  the  room  and  stood  for  a 
moment,  her  hand  resting  on  the  table,  looking 
at  the  orderly  fire  and  then  at  the  chair  which 
seemed  to  belong  more  to  him  than  to  her  father. 
The  cat  got  up  from  the  lounge  where,  as  she 
knew  perfectly  well,  she  had  to  content  herself 
when  Cap'n  Oliver  came,  stretched,  and  walked 
over  to  the  chair  as  if  to  assert  her  ownership. 
She  was  gathering  her  muscles  for  the  easy  leap 
when  Miss  Letty  pounced  upon  her,  gently  yet 
with  an  involuntary  decision. 

"  Don't  you  get  up  there,  puss,"  she  said  jeal 
ously.  "  Do  you  think  you  've  got  to  have  a  share 
in  everything  that  ?s  goin ?  ?  " 

Then  she  laughed  at  herself  in  a  gentle  shame, 
lifted  puss  into  the  seat  of  desire,  and  stroked 
her  ruffled  dignity,  and  still  laughing,  in  that  in 
dulgent  way,  sat  down  to  see  the  fire  out  before 
she  went  to  bed. 

The  next  day  Miss  Letty  set  about  cleaning 
her  house,  the  actual  first  step  toward  leaving 
it;  and  suddenly,  as  she  worked,  at  a  moment 
she  could  never  identify,  it  came  over  her  that 


THE  AUCTION  61 

things  which  had  been  hers  by  such  long  usage 
that  they  were  as  unconsidered  as  her  hand  that 
wrought  upon  them,  were  to  be  hers  no  more. 
Then,  as  she  dusted  and  rubbed,  she  stopped 
from  time  to  time,  to  regard  the  rooms  and  their 
furnishings  musingly  and  wonder  if  she  should 
remember  every  smallest  touch  of  their  homely 
charm.  She  hoped  she  should  at  least  remember. 

All  the  week  she  did  not  see  Cap'n  Oliver.  He 
was  over  at  the  Pinelands,  she  understood,  mak 
ing  his  married  sister  a  little  visit,  as  he  always 
did  in  the  fall  of  the  year.  If  she  thought  it  a 
little  hard  that  he  should  be  away  the  last  week 
her  home  was  to  wear  its  accustomed  face,  she 
did  not  say  so,  even  to  herself.  It  seemed  to  her 
a  poor  habit  to  wish  for  what  was  obviously  not 
to  be,  and  all  by  herself  she  set  upon  the  day 
for  the  sale  of  her  goods  and  sent  for  the  auc 
tioneer  to  come. 

An  auction  was  a  great  event  throughout  the 
countryside.  It  ordinarily  happened  in  the 
spring,  as  if  people  had  taken  all  winter  to  get 
used  to  parting  with  their  possessions;  and  then 
wagons  of  every  sort  came  from  whatever  region 
the  county  paper  had  reached,  and  families 
brought  their  lunches  in  butter-boxes  and  went 
about  scrutinizing  the  household  gear  that  was 
to  come  under  the  hammer,  glad  at  last  to  know 
what  the  house  walls  had  really  held;  or  they 


62  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

visited  with  their  neighbors  in  little  groups. 
But  this  was  a  day  of  fall  sunshine  and  drifting 
leaves.  Miss  Letty,  standing  at  an  upper  window 
looking  out  on  her  pear  tree,  the  leaves  leathery 
brown,  felt  a  twitching  of  the  lips.  She  gazed 
farther  over  her  domain,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  it  had  never  been  so  pleasant  before,  so 
mellowed  and  softened  by  the  last  light  of  the 
year.  She  knew  there  were  neighbors  in  the 
yard  below,  and  could  not  bring  herself  to  glance 
at  them.  A  line  of  horses  stood  there,  and,  she 
was  sure,  all  the  way  up  the  lane,  and  she  remem 
bered  that  was  the  way  they  had  stood  when 
her  mother  was  buried. 

Then  some  one  laughed  out,  in  a  way  she 
knew,  and  she  looked  down  and  saw  Cap'n  Oli 
ver.  He  was  staring  up  at  her  window,  as  he 
answered  a  neighbor's  greeting,  and  he  gave  a 
little  oblique  nod  at  her,  and  stumped  along  up 
the  path.  At  once  she  recalled  herself  to  the  day, 
and  went  downstairs  to  meet  him.  It  seemed 
very  simple  and  plain  now  he  had  come. 

The  neighbors  standing  in  the  entry  stood 
aside  to  let  her  pass,  but  she  could  scarcely  notice 
them.  It  began  to  seem  as  if  she  must  reach  Cap'n 
Oliver,  and  then  all  would  be  well.  The  cap'n  was 
in  vigorous  condition.  His  face  looked  ruddier, 
and  he  was  shaking  her  hand  and  saying,  as  if 
she  had  endowed  him  with  her  state  of  mind :  — 


THE  AUCTION  63 

"  Soon  be  over,  Letty,  soon  be  over.  Don't 
you  give  it  a  thought." 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Letty,  choking,  "  I  won't.  I 
won't  give  it  a  thought." 

But  at  that  moment  Hiram  Jackson,  who  knew 
everything  and  was  fervidly  anxious  to  be  the 
earliest  herald,  came  stammering  out  his  eager 
ness  to  tell. 

"  Say,  Miss  Letty.  Say !  you  can't  have  no 
auction.  You  won't  have  no  auctioneer.  Old 
Blaisdell's  wife's  sister's  dead,  down  to  East 
Branch,  an'  he  's  gone." 

Miss  Letty,  breathless,  looked  at  the  cap'n. 
"  Well,  there ! "  she  said.  It  was  in  her  mind  that 
now  she  might  not  need  to  have  the  auction  at 
all;  and  again  she  wondered,  since  she  must 
have  it,  how  she  could  ever  make  up  her  mind  to 
it  again. 

"Oh,  dear!  "  she  breathed.  "I'm  sorry." 

The  cap'n  was  frowning  at  her,  only  because 
he  was  so  deep  in  thought.  He  threw  up  his  head 
a  little,  then,  bluffly,  as  if  he  had  reached  a  clearer 
decision  he  meant  to  follow  out. 

"Not  a  word,  Letty,"  said  he.  "Now  don't 
you  speak  a  word.  I'm  goin'  to  auction  'em  off 
myself." 

She  stared  at  him,  her  lips  apart,  in  protest. 

"Why,  Oliver,"  she  said,  "you  ain't  an  auc 
tioneer." 


64  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  Well,  I  shall  be  after  this  bout.  Now  you 
come  straight  into  the  sittin'-room  an'  set  down 
in  the  corner  underneath  the  ostrich  egg,  wiiere 
I  can  see  you  good  an'  plain.  An'  if  I  come  to 
anything  you  want  to  bid  in,  you  hold  up  your 
finger,  an'  I  '11  knock  it  down  to  you.  You  un 
derstand,  don't  ye,  Letty?" 

It  was  hard  to  realize  that  she  did,  she  looked 
so  like  a  frightened  little  animal,  turning  her 
head  this  way  and  that,  as  if  she  longed  for  leaves 
to  cover  her. 

"  You  understand,  Letty,  don't  ye  ?"  the  cap'n 
was  asking  with  great  gentleness;  and  because 
she  saw  at  last  some  sign  of  distress  in  his  face 
also,  she  quieted,  in  a  dutiful  fashion,  and  nod 
ded  at  him. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  '11  be  where  you  can  see 
me.  But  Isha'n'tbidnothin'in.  I  don't  prize  'em 
'specially  more  'n  I  prize  everything  together.  If 
I  can  give  up  an'  go  out  West,  I  guess  I  can  get 
along  without  my  furniture.  Should  n't  you  think 
so?" 

She  went  hurrying  away  across  the  hall  and 
into  the  sitting-room,  and  Cap'n  Oliver,  his  head 
bent  a  little,  stroked  his  chin  and  watched  her. 
Then  he  followed,  making  his  way  through  the 
friendly  crowd  in  hall  and  sitting-room,  and 
mounted  the  dry-goods  box  prepared  for  the  auc 
tioneer.  He  looked  about  him  and  smiled  a  little, 


THE  AUCTION  65 

partly  because  people  were  gazing  at  him  sym 
pathetically,  and  partly  over  his  own  embarrass 
ing  plight.  For  he  was  a  shy  man.  Nobody  knew 
it  but  himself,  and  he  was  afraid  that  after  to 
day  everybody  would  know. 

"  Well,  neighbors,"  said  he,  "  I  feel  as  if  I  was 
runnin'  for  President  or  hog-reeve  or  something 
or  goin'  to  speak  in  meetin'.  But  I  ain't.  I  'm  goin' 
to  auction  off  Letty  Lamson's  things,  an'  I  ain't 
been  to  an  auction  myself  sence  I  was  seventeen 
an'  set  on  the  fence  an'  chewed  gum  an'  played 
't  was  tobacker  while  oldDan'el  Cummings'sf  arm 
was  auctioned  off  down  to  the  last  stick  o'  timber. 
Well,  I  don't  know  's  I  could  say  how 't  was  done, 
nor  how  it 's  commonly  done  now,  but  I  can  take 
a  try  at  it.  Now,  here  's  some  books  Miss  Letty 's 
brought  down  out  o'  the  attic.  I  don't  know  what 
they  be,  but  they  look  to  me  as  if  they  might  ha' 
come  out  of  her  gran'ther's  lib'ry  —  old  Parson 
Lamson,  ye  know." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Letty,  from  the  low  rocking- 
chair  a  neighbor  had  insisted  on  giving  up  to  her, 
"  they  did.  Many  's  the  time  I  've  watched  him 
porin'  over  'em  winter  nights  with  two  candles." 

"  There,  you  see !  they  're  Parson  Lamson's 
books.  Many  a  good  word  he  got  out  of  'em  for 
his  sermons,  I  '11  bet  ye  a  dollar.  Why,  ye  recol 
lect  how  much  Parson  Lamson  done  for  this 
town,  how  he  got  up  sewin'-circles  in  war-time 


66  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

an'  set  everybody  to  scrapin'  lint,  an'  climbed  out 
of  his  bed  after  he  could  n't  hardly  stand  with 
rheumatism  to  say  good-by  to  the  boys  when 
they  enlisted,  an'  how  he  wrote  to  'em  an'  prayed 
for  'em — why,  them  books  are  wuth  their  weight 
in  gold.  How  much  am  I  offered  for  Parson 
Lamson's  books  ?  A  dollar-seventy —  "Why,  bless 
you,  Tim  Fry,  there  ain't  a  book  there  but 's  wuth 
a  dollar-seventy  taken  by  itself !  Why,  I  '11  start 
it  myself  at  thirteen  —  " 

"  Oh,  don't  you  do  it,  Cap'n,  don't  you  do  it !  " 
called  Miss  Letty  piercingly.  "  I  don't  want  'em 
to  bid  on  gran'ther's  books.  I  want  them  books 
myself,  if  I  have  to  work  my  fingers  to  the 
bone." 

The  cap'n  took  out  his  beautiful  colored 
handkerchief  with  Joseph  and  his  brethren  on 
it,  and  wiped  his  face. 

"  Gone ! "  said  he,  "  to  Miss  Letty  Lamson. 
Now,  ladies  an'  gentlemen,  here 's  a  little  chair. 
I  know  that  chair,  an'  so  do  you.  It 's  the  chair 
little  Letty  Lamson  used  to  set  in  when  she 
wa'n't  more'n  three  year  old,  an'  her  mother 
used  to  keep  her  out  under  the  sweet-bough  tree 
in  that  little  rocker  whilst  she  was  washin'  or 
churnin'!  What?" 

He  paused,  for  Miss  Letty  had  waved  a  fran 
tic  hand.  The  tears  were  running  down  her 
cheeks.  The  others  had  before  them  the  picture 


THE  AUCTION  67 

of  little  Letty  Lamson  swaying  and  singing  to 
herself,  but  she  saw  the  brown  apple-stems  over 
her  head  and  smelled  the  bitter-sweetness  of  the 
blooms.  She  saw  her  mother's  plump  bare  arms 
as  they  went  up  and  down  with  the  churn- 
dasher  or  in  and  out  of  the  suds,  and  felt  again 
the  pang  of  love  that  used  to  tell  her  that 
mother  was  the  most  beautiful  creature  in  the 
world. 

"  Why,"  said  she,  regardless  of  her  listeners, 
"I  wouldn't  part  with  that  chair  for  a  hundred 
dollars.  How  ever  come  you  to  think  I  'd  part 
with  my  little  chair  ?  " 

The  cap'n  was  looking  at  her  in  a  frank  per 
plexity. 

"  The  chair,"  said  he,  "  remains  the  property 
of  our  friend  and  neighbor,  Miss  Letty  Lamson. 
Now,  ladies  an'  gentlemen,  here 's  a  fire-set  — 
tongs,  shovel,  an'  andirons.  That  fire-set  has 
been  in  this  very  settin'-room  as  long  as  I  can 
remember.  Summer-times  the  andirons  have 
been  trimmed  up  with  sparrergrass  an'  the  like 
o'  that,  an'  winter-times  they  've  been  shined  up 
complete  an'  the  fire  snappin'  behind  'em.  What 
am  I  offered—  " 

Miss  Letty  was  standing. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "I  never  meant  to  put  that 
fire-set  in.  Why,  don't  you  remember — " 

She  was  facing  the  cap'n,  and  the  appeal  of 


68  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

her  voice  and  look  ran  straight  to  him  over  the 
heads  of  the  others,  like  a  message.  It  bade  him 
recall  how  he  and  she  had  sat  together  and 
talked  of  sad  things  and  happy  ones,  night  af 
ter  night,  for  many  years.  The  talks  had  been 
mostly  cheerful,  for  the  cap'n  would  have  it  so, 
and  whenever  she  felt  poorly  she  had  taken 
pains  to  put  on  a  lively  front,  because  she  rea 
soned  that  menfolks  hated  squally  weather. 
Now,  with  the  passing  of  the  andirons  and  all 
they  stood  for,  it  looked  to  her  as  if  a  door  had 
shut  on  that  pleasant  seclusion  where  they  two 
had  communed  together,  and  there  would  be  no 
more  laughter  in  the  world.  "  Oliver ! "  she  said, 
and  stopped,  because  the  coming  words  had 
choked  her. 

The  cap'n  was  looking  at  her  over  his  glasses 
with  extreme  benevolence. 

"  Letty,"  said  he,  "  I  guess  you  better  go  up 
stairs  an'  sort  out  some  o'  the  bed-linen  an'  cov 
erlets.  I  understood  they  wa'n't  quite  ready,  an' 
we  shall  get  to  'em  before  long.  If  I  come  to 
anything  down  here  I  think  you  set  by  particu 
larly  an'  that  you  can  pack  up  as  well  as  not,  I'll 
bid  it  in  for  ye." 

The  neighbors  were  nodding  in  a  kindly  con 
firmation,  and  Miss  Letty  also  understood  it  to 
be  for  the  best.  She  made  her  way  through  the 
friendly  aisle  cleared  for  her,  and  Cap'n  Oliver 


THE  AUCTION  69 

waited  until  he  heard  her  on  the  stairs  above. 
He  drew  a  heavy  breath. 

"  Now,"  said  he, "  I  guess  we  can  poke  along. 
It  ain't  to  be  wondered  at  anybody  should  want 
to  bid  in  their  own  things,  but  it 's  kind  of  dis- 
tressin'  to  an  auctioneer  that  wants  to  earn  his 
money.  Now  here 's  this  high-boy.  I  '11  rattle  it 
off  before  Miss  Letty  gets  time  to  have  a  change 
of  heart  an'  come  down  again.  What  am  I  of 
fered  for  old  Parson  Lamson's  high-boy,  bon 
net-top  an'  old  brasses  all  complete  V  " 

Timothy  Fry,  a  bright-eyed  youth  in  the 
background,  started  it  at  fifteen  dollars.  Tim 
othy  had  hitherto,  in  his  twenty  years,  shown 
no  sign  of  enthusiasm  more  sophisticated  than 
that  of  shooting  birds  in  their  season  and  roam 
ing  the  woods  in  a  happy  vagabondage  while  the 
law  was  on.  When  he  made  his  bid  there  was  a 
great  turning  of  heads.  Some  looked  at  him,  but 
others  fixed  the  cap'n  with  a  challenging  glance, 
because  he  and  the  cap'n  were  great  cronies, 
and  it  had  been  jocosely  said  they  were  thick  as 
thieves,  and  if  one  lied  t'other  would  swear  to 
it.  But  Timothy,  in  his  Sunday  suit,  with  a  blue 
tie  and  an  elaborate  scarf-pin,  looked  the  pic 
ture  of  innocence,  and  it  was  concluded  that, 
although  no  one  had  suspected  it,  he  was 
thinking  of  setting  up  housekeeping  for  him 
self.  The  cap'n's  face  had  an  earnest  absorp- 


70  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

tion.  He  was  evidently  occupied  only  in  being 
auctioneer. 

"  Pshaw !  "  he  said,  with  a  conversational  ruth- 
lessness.  "  Fifteen  dollars  !  Why,  I  'd  give  that 
myself  an'  set  it  up  out  there  at  the  cross-roads 
for  autos  to  bid  on  while  they  run.  Its  wuth  — 
well,  I  would  n't  say  what  't  was  wuth.  Maybe 
you  'd  laugh,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  laughed  at, 
if  I  be  an  auctioneer." 

"  Twenty-five,"  piped  up  Deacon  Eli  King, 
won  by  the  lure  of  city  rivalry. 

"  Twenty-six,"  Timothy  offered  quietly. 

"  Twenty-eight,"  trembled  Hannah  Bond,  who 
lived  alone  and  braided  mats  for  the  city  trade. 
She  had  always  wanted  a  high-boy,  but  the  sound 
of  her  own  voice  made  it  seem  as  if  bidding  might 
be  almost  too  steep  a  price  to  pay  for  one. 

"  Twenty-nine,"  said  Timothy. 

After  that  there  was  very  little  competition. 
Nobody  wanted  a  high-boy  except  for  commer 
cial  possibilities,  and  about  the  time  the  bidding 
reached  thirty-five  dollars  a  foreshadowing 
timidity  began  to  overspread  the  assembly.  An 
autumn  wind  came  up  and  set  the  bare  woodbine 
sprays  to  beating  on  the  window,  to  the  tune  of 
nearing  snow.  Summer  buyers  seemed  far  away. 
"When  one  considered  the  drifted  leaves  and  the 
cold  sky,  it  looked  as  if  full  purses  and  credulous 
minds  were  a  midsummer  dream,  never  to  come 


THE  AUCTION  71 

again.  So  the  high-boy,  in  this  moment  of  com 
mercial  panic,  was  knocked  down  to  Timothy 
Fry.  Five  or  six  chairs  followed,  and  these  also 
became  his. 

Then  the  crowd  pressed  into  the  west  sitting- 
room,  where  there  was  richer  treasure.  Here, 
too,  Timothy's  unmoved  voice  beat  steadily  on, 
raising  every  bid,  and  here,  too,  he  came  out 
victor.  In  the  next  room  also  he  swept  the  field, 
and  now  at  last  the  crowd  murmurously  com 
pared  certainties,  one  woman  darkly  prophesy 
ing  he  never  'd  pay  for  them,  because  he  had  n't 
a  cent  —  not  a  cent  —  laid  up,  and  a  man  re 
turning  that  nobody  need  worry.  'T  was  only  a 
joke  of  Tim's ;  but  Miss  Letty  'd  be  the  one  to 
suffer.  Timothy's  eyes  and  ears  were  closed  to 
comment.  His  commercial  onslaught  continued, 
and  when,  in  the  early  dusk,  horses  were  un 
hitched  and  there  was  time  for  comment  at  the 
gate,  it  was  clearly  understood  that,  save  for 
what  Miss  Letty  had  bid  in  at  the  start,  Tim 
othy  Fry  was  the  possessor  of  every  stick  of 
furniture,  every  cup  and  bowl  even,  and  all  the 
ornaments  and  articles  of  common  usage  in  the 
house.  Timothy  himself  had  gone.  The  men  had 
looked  about  for  him,  to  rally  him  on  his  ap 
proaching  nuptials,  the  women  for  the  ruthless 
cross-questioning  his  madness  had  invited;  but 
he  had  slipped  away  softly,  like  the  wood-crea- 


72  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

tures  he  hunted.  Even  Cap'n  Oliver,  who  might 
be  supposed  to  know  his  inner  mind,  had  be 
taken  himself  to  the  porch,  and  stood  there,  hat 
in  hand,  wiping  his  heated  brow. 

"  Don't  ask  me,"  he  returned  to  queries  and  con 
clusions  in  the  mass.  "  I'm  nothin'  in  the  world 
but  an  auctioneer.  Now  I  've  learned  the  road, 
I  dunno  but  I  shall  go  right  along  auctionin'  off 
everything  I  come  acrost.  You  better  be  gettin' 
along  home.  Mebbe  I  '11  sell  your  teams  right  off 
under  your  noses,  if  the  fit  comes  over  me." 

"  Timothy  ain't  goin'  to  be  married,  is  he  V" 
inquired  aunt  Belinda  Soule,  who  sent  items  to 
the  "  County  Star." 

"S'pose  so,  sometime,"  concurred  the  cap'n 
jovially.  "It's  the  end  o'  mortals  here  below. 
Dunno  but  I  shall  be  married  myself,  if  it  comes 
to  that." 

"  When 's  he  goin'  to  take  his  furniture  away?" 
continued  aunt  Belinda,  with  the  persistence  of 
her  kind. 

"  Don't  know.  Mebbe  he  ain't  goin'  to  take 
it.  Mebbe  he 's  goin'  to  marry  Letty.  'Pears  to 
me  I  heard  a  kind  of  a  rumor  she  was  goin'  to 
marry  'fore  long." 

Aunt  Belinda  shook  her  head  at  him. 

"  Don't  talk  so  about  a  nice  respectable  woman," 
said  she.  "  An'  she  gohY  to  move  away  from  us 
an'  live  nobody  knows  where.  It 's  a  shame." 


THE  AUCTION"  73 

The  cap'n  burst  into  a  laugh  that  aunt  Belinda 
privately  thought  coarse,  and  turned  back  into 
the  house,  while  she  joined  a  group  of  matrons 
and  went  away  home,  discoursing  volubly. 

Cap'n  Oliver  stopped  for  a  minute  at  the  win 
dow  in  the  empty  parlor,  watching  their  depart 
ing  bulk,  and  then  went  into  the  hall,  where  the 
tread  of  many  invading  feet  had  left  the  moist 
autumn  soil,  with  bits  of  grass  and  now  and  then 
a  yellowed  leaf. 

"  Letty  ! "  he  called  roundly. 

There  was  a  light  step  above,  and  then  Miss 
Letty's  voice,  a  very  little  voice  suited  to  the 
dusk  and  stillness,  came  down  the  stairs. 

"  Be  they  gone  ?  "  she  faltered. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  cap'n,  "  they  're  gone,  every 
confounded  one  of  'em." 

"  Did  they  take  the  things  with  'em  ?  "  inquired 
Miss  Letty.  "I  didn't  dast  to  look.  I  knew  I 
couldn't  help  feelin'  it  if  I  see  'em  all  loaded  up 
with  things  I  knew." 

"  You  come  down  here,  Letty,"  said  the  cap'n. 
"  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you." 

She  did  come,  wondering,  her  face  sodden 
with  tears,  and  a  miserable  little  ball  of  a  wet 
handkerchief  in  her  grasp.  The  cap'n  met  her  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  and,  without  warning,  took 
her  by  the  shoulders  and  shook  her  slightly,  why, 
he  did  not  know,  except  perhaps  as  a  warning  to 


74  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

put  a  prettier  face  on  the  matter.  Then  he  drew 
her  into  his  arms  with  a  conclusiveness  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  resist,  and  kissed  her  soft 
wet  cheeks.  He  kissed  them  a  good  many  times, 
and  ended  by  touching  her  trembling  mouth. 

"  There,"  said  the  cap'n,  "I  don't  know's  I 
ever  kissed  you  before,  Letty,  but  I  expect  to  a 
good  many  times  again,  off  V  on." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  did  once,"  said  Miss  Letty,  with 
unexpected  frankness  and  simplicity.  "  'T  was 
the  eighteenth  of  November,  thirty  years  ago 
this  very  fall." 

The  cap'n  looked  at  her  and  broke  into  a  won 
dering  laugh. 

"  Letty,"  said  he,  "you're  the  beateree,  an'  I  'm 
a  nat'ral-born  fool.  You  're  goin'  to  marry  me 
right  off  as  soon  as  I  can  get  the  license." 

"  An'  live  over  to  your  house  an'  not  go  to 
Chicago  ?  "  inquired  Miss  Letty  beatifically. 

"  Course  you  won't  go  to  Chicago,  unless  we 
go  together  some  spring  or  fall  an'  make  'em  a 
visit  an'  show  'em  we  've  got  suthin'  to  live  for 
as  well  as  they  have." 

"  Then  I  need  n't  have  sold  my  furniture,"  said 
she,  with  a  happy  turn  of  logic. 

"  Sold  your  furniture?  You  ain't  sold  it.  I  had 
Tim  Fry  bid  it  all  in  for  me,  an'  I  was  goin'  to 
have  it  crated  up  an'  tell  Ellery,  when  he  come, 
he  'd  got  to  let  me  pay  it  on  to  Chicago,  whether 


THE  AUCTION  75 

or  no.  An'  then  when  I  stood  up  there  like  a 
rooster  on  a  fence,  auctionin'  of  it  off,  it  all  come 
over  me  't  wa'n't  the  furniture  an*  the  house  I 
should  miss.  'T  was  you.  I  made  up  my  mind 
then  an'  there  I  'd  keep  ye  if  I  had  to  hopple  ye 
by  the  ankle  like  Tolman's  jumpin'  steer." 

Miss  Letty  withdrew  from  him  and  took  a 
timid  step  to  the  west-room  door,  where,  though 
the  dusk  was  gathering,  she  could  find  the  famil 
iar  shapes  of  her  beloved  possessions. 

"  I  don't  see  how  in  the  world  I  ever  made  up 
my  mind  I  could,"  she  said,  a  happy  tremor  in 
her  voice. 

It  sounded  to  Cap'n  Oliver  strangely  like  a 
voice  out  of  his  past,  unquelled  by  fears  and  ab 
negations.  It  was  the  voice  that  used  to  greet 
him  when,  in  his  splendid  blue  suit  and  shining 
satin  tie,  he  had  called  for  Letty  Lamson,  some 
thirty  years  ago,  to  take  her  in  his  sleigh  to  sing 
ing-school. 

"  Could  what  ?  "  he  inquired  hilariously,  out  of 
his  dream  where  the  present  made  the  fire  on  the 
hearth  and  the  past  lent  him  figures  to  sit  by  it. 

"  Why,  get  along  without  my  old  things." 

"  I  s'pose  you  never  so  much  as  thought  you 
could  n't  get  along  without  me,"  suggested  the 
cap'n,  in  a  kindly  rallying. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Letty  soberly,  "  I  did  think 
that.  I  knew  I  could  n't." 


SATURDAY  NIGHT 

JERKY  NORTON  stopped  for  a  moment  swinging 
his  axe  and  crashing  it  into  the  grain  of  the  tree, 
and  took  off  his  cap  to  cool  his  wet  forehead. 
He  looked  very  strong,  standing  there,  equipped 
with  great  shoulders,  a  back  as  straight  as  the 
tree  its  might  was  smashing,  and  the  vigor  be 
spoken  by  red-brown  eyes,  a  sanguine  skin,  and 
thick  bright  hair.  He  seemed  to  be  regarding  the 
pine  trunks  against  the  snow  of  the  hill  beyond, 
and  again  the  tiny  tracks  nearer  by,  where  a  win 
ter  animal  had  flurried;  but  really  all  the  beauties 
of  the  woods  were  sealed  to  him. 

He  was  going  back  five  days  to  his  quarrel 
with  Stella  Joyce,  and  scowling  as  he  thought 
how  hateful  she  had  been  in  her  injustice.  It  was 
all  about  the  ten-foot  strip  of  land  the  city  man 
had  claimed  from  Jerry's  new  building  lot 
through  a  newly  found  flaw  in  the  title.  Jerry, 
Stella  mourned,  had  relinquished  the  land  with 
out  question. 

"  J  ?u  have  hung  on  to  it  and  fought  him  through 
every  court  in  the  country,"  she  had  declared, 
in  a  passion  of  reproach.  "  You  're  so  numb. 
Jerry !  You  just  go  pokin'  along  from  day  to 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  77 

day,  lettin'  folks  walk  over  you  —  and  never  a 
word!" 

Jerry  had  been  unable,  out  of  his  numbness, 
to  explain  that  he  gave  up  the  land  because  the 
other  man's  title  to  it,  he  had  seen  at  once,  was 
a  valid  one;  nor  could  she,  on  her  side,  tell  him 
how  her  wounded  feeling  was  intensified  because 
old  aunt  Bray,  come  from  the  West  for  a  visit, 
had  settled  down  upon  him  and  his  mother,  in  all 
likelihood  to  remain  and  go  into  the  new  house 
when  it  wa,s  built.  But  there  was  no  time  for 
either  of  them  to  reach  pacific  reasons  when  every 
swift  word  of  hers  begot  a  sullen  look  from  him ; 
and  before  they  knew  it  they  had  parted. 

Now,  while  he  was  retracing  the  path  of  their 
disagreement,  lighted  by  the  flaming  lamps  of 
her  upbraiding,  he  heard  a  movement,  light 
enough  for  a  furry  creature  on  its  way  to  covert, 
and  Stella  stood  before  him.  She  did  not  look 
cither  obstinate  or  likely  to  continue  any  quarrel, 
however  well  begun.  She  was  a  round  little  per 
son,  complete  in  her  miniature  beauties,  and  now 
her  blue  eyes  sought  him  with  an  extremity  of 
emotion  very  honest  and  also  timid.  She  had 
wrapped  herself  in  a  little  red  shawl,  and  her 
hands,  holding  it  tight  about  her,  gave  a  fantastic 
impression  of  being  clasped  in  mute  appeal.  Jerry 
looked  at  her  in  wonder.  For  an  instant  they  both 
stood  as  still  as  two  wood-creatures  surprisingly 


78  COUNTBY  NEIGHBOES 

met  and,  so  far,  undetermined  upon  the  degree 
of  hostility  it  would  be  wise  to  show. 

Stella  broke  the  silence.  She  retreated  a  little, 
in  doing  it,  as  if  words  would  bring  her  nearer 
and  she  repudiated  that  degree  of  intimacy. 

"  I  just  want  a  favor,"  she  said  humbly. 

Jerry  advanced  a  step  as  she  withdrew,  and 
the  interval  between  them  stayed  unchanged. 
Now  the  trouble  in  her  face  had  its  effect  on  him, 
and  he  forgot  for  a  moment  how  he  hated  her. 

"Ain't  anything  the  matter,  is  there?"  he 
asked,  in  quick  concern. 

Stella  shook  her  head,  but  her  eyes  brimmed 
over.  That  evidently  annoyed  her,  and  she  re 
leased  the  little  shawl  to  lift  a  hand  and  brush 
the  tears  away. 

"  Aunt  Hill  has  come,"  she  said. 

He  had  an  impulse  to  tell  her,  as  a  piece  of 
news  that  would  once  have  concerned  them  both, 
that  his  own  aunt  was  making  her  plans  to  go 
West  again,  and  that  she  had  furnished  the  money 
for  him  to  buy  back  the  precious  strip  of  land.  The 
city  man,  seeing  how  much  he  prized  it,  had  sold 
it  to  him.  But  while  he  reflected  that  now  Stella 
cared  nothing  about  his  intimate  concerns,  she 
was  rushing  on. 

"  And  mother 's  sick,"  she  ended. 

"  Sho ! "  said  Jerry,  in  a  sympathizing  blur. 
"  Eeal  sick  ?  " 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  79 

"No,  nothin'  but  her  rheumatism.  But  it's  in 
her  back  this  time.  She  can't  move  hand  nor  foot." 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Jerry,  leaning  his  axe  against 
the  trunk  of  the  wounded  tree.  "  Course !  you 
want  I  should  go  over  'n'  help  lift  her." 

Stella  shook  her  head  in  definite  finality. 

"  Xo,  I  don't  either.  Aunt  Hill  'n'  I  can  man 
age  well  enough.  I  guess  mother  'd  be  provoked 
'most  to  death  if  I  run  round  callin'  the  men- 
folks  in." 

"  "Well,  what  is  it  then  ?  "  asked  Jerry,  in  pal 
pable  disappointment.  "  What  is  't  you  want  me 
to  do  ?  " 

He  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  cheeks  so 
red.  They  made  him  think  of  the  partridge-ber 
ries  under  the  snow.  She  began  her  tale,  looking 
indifferently  at  him  as  she  proceeded,  as  if  to  con 
vince  them  both  that  there  was  nothing  peculiar 
in  it  all. 

"  Aunt  Hill 's  an  awful  trial  to  mother." 

Jerry  took  up  his  axe  in  one  hand,  and  began 
absently  chopping  off  a  circle  of  bark  about  the 
tree.  Stella  was  near  saying,  "  Don't  you  cut  your 
foot ! "  but  she  closed  her  lips  upon  the  friendly 
caution  and  continued:  — 

"  There 's  nothin'  she  don't  get  her  nose  into, 
and  it  just  wears  mother  out." 

"  She 's  a  great  talker,  seems  if  I  remembered," 
said  Jerry  absently,  wishing  Stella  would  keep 


80  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

her  hands  under  the  shawl  and  not  get  them 
frozen  to  death.  He  was  about  to  add  that  most 
women  did  talk  too  much,  but  somehow  that 
seemed  an  unfortunate  implication  from  one  as 
unpopular  as  he,  and  he  caught  himself  up  in 
time.  Stella  was  dashing  on  now,  in  the  course 
of  her  obnoxious  task. 

"  If  anything 's  queer,  she  just  goes  at  mother 
hard  as  she  can  pelt  and  keeps  at  her  till  she 
finds  it  out.  And  mother  hates  it  enough  when 
she's  well,  but  when  she's  sick  it's  just  awful. 
And  now  she 's  flat  on  her  back." 

"  Course,"  said  Jerry,  in  a  comprehending 
sympathy.  "  Want  I  should  carry  your  aunt  Hill 
off  to  the  Junction  ?  " 

"Why,  you  can't!  She  wouldn't  go.  You 
could  n't  pry  her  out  with  a  crowbar.  She 's  made 
up  her  mind  to  stay  till  a  week  from  to-morrow, 
and  till  a  week  from  to-morrow  she  '11  stay." 

Jerry  looked  gloomily  into  the  distance.  He 
was  feeling  his  own  limitations  as  a  seer. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  venturing  a  remark  likely  to 
involve  him  in  no  way,  "  I  s'pose  she  will." 

"Now,  see  here,"  said  Stella.  She  spoke  with 
a  defiant  hardness,  the  measure  of  her  hatred  for 
what  she  had  to  do.  "  There 's  one  way  you  could 
help  us  out.  She  asked  about  you  right  away, 
and  of  course  she  thought  we  were  —  goin'  to 
gether,  same 's  we  had  been." 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  81 

Here  her  voice  failed  her,  and  he  knew  the 
swift  color  on  her  cheek  was  the  miserable  sign 
of  her  shame  in  such  remembrance.  It  became 
his  task  to  hearten  her. 

"  Course,"  said  he.  "  Anybody  would." 

"Well,  I  can't  tell  her.  I  ain't  even  told 
mother  yet,  and  I  don't  want  to  till  she  's  on  her 
feet  again.  And  if  aunt  Hill  gets  the  leastest 
wrind  of  it  she  '11  hound  mother  every  minute,  and 
mother '11  give  up,  and  —  well,  I  just  can't  do  it, 
that 'sail." 

Jerry  was  advancing  eagerly  now,  his  lips 
parted  for  speech ;  but  her  task  once  begun  was 
easier,  and  she  continued :  — 

"  Now,  don't  you  see  ?  I  should  think  you 
could." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jerry,  in  great  hopefulness. 
"  Course  I  do." 

"No,  you  don't  either.  It's  only,  she's  goin' 
to  be  here  not  quite  a  week,  and  it 's  only  one 
Saturday  night." 

"Yes,"  said  Jerry,  "that's  to-morrer  night." 

"  Well,  don't  you  see  ?  If  you  don't  come  over, 
she  '11  wonder  why,  and  mother  '11  wonder  why, 
and  mother  '11  ask  me,  and,  oh,  dear !  dear ! " 

Jerry  thought  she  really  was  going  to  cry, 
this  time,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  these  domes 
tic  whirlwinds  furnished  ample  reason  for  it. 

"  Course !  "  he  said,  in  whole-hearted  misery 


82  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

for  her.  "It's  a  bad  place.  A  man  wouldn't 
think  anything  of  it,  but  women-folks  are  differ 
ent.  They  'd  mind  it  terribly.  Anybody  could  see 
they  would." 

Stella  looked  at  him  as  if  personal  chastise 
ment  would  be  too  light  for  him. 

"Don't  you  see?"  she  insisted  in  a  tone  of 
enforced  patience.  "  If  you  'd  only  dress  up  and 


come  over." 


Light  broke  in  on  him. 

"  Course  I  will,  Stella,"  he  called,  so  loudly 
that  she  looked  over  her  shoulder  to  see  if  per 
haps  some  neighbor,  crossing  the  wood-lot, 
might  have  heard.  "  You  just  bet  I  will !  " 

Then,  to  his  wonderment,  she  had  vanished 
as  softly  as  she  came.  Jerry  was  disappointed. 
He  had  thought  they  were  going  on  talking 
about  the  domestic  frenzies  wrought  by  aunt 
Hill,  but  it  seemed  that  further  sociability  was 
to  be  denied  him  until  to-morrow  night.  He  took 
up  his  axe,  and  went  on  paying  into  the  heart  of 
the  tree.  But  he  whistled  now,  and  omitted  to 
think  how  much  he  hated  Stella.  He  was  debating 
whether  her  scarlet  shawl  was  redder  than  her 
cheeks.  But  Jerry  never  voiced  such  wonders. 
They  seemed  to  him  like  a  pain,  or  satisfaction 
over  one's  dinner,  an  ultimate  part  of  individual 
experience. 

The  next  night,  early  after  supper,  he  took 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  83 

his  way  "  down  along  "  to  the  Joyce  homestead , 
lying  darkly  under  leafless  elms.  There  was  a 
light  in  the  parlor,  as  there  had  been  every  night 
since  he  began  to  go  with  Stella,  and  his  heart 
beat  in  recognition,  knowing  it  was  for  him.  He 
tried  the  front  door  to  walk  in,  neighbor-fashion, 
but  it  resisted  him,  and  then  he  let  the  knocker 
fall,  umnodiately  a  window  opened  above,  and 
Stella's  voice  came  down  to  him. 

"O  Jerry,  mother's  back  is  worse,  and  I  feel 
as  if  I  'd  ought  to  be  rubbin'  her.  You  come  over 
another  time." 

Jerry  stood  staring  up  at  her,  a  choking  in  his 
throat,  and  something  burning  hotly  into  his 
eyes.  But  he  found  his  voice  just  as  the  window 
was  sliding  down. 

"  Don't  you  want  I  should  do  somethin'  ?  I 
should  think  she'd  have  to  be  lifted." 

"  No,"  said  Stella,  quite  blithely,  "  I  can  do  all 
there  is  to  do.  Good-night." 

The  window  closed  and  he  went  away/  Stella 
ran  downstairs  to  the  bedroom  where  aunt  Hill 
sat  beside  her  mother,  fanning  the  invalid  with 
a  palm-leaf  fan.  Mrs.  Joyce  hated  to  be  fanned 
in  wintry  weather,  but  aunt  Hill  acted  upon  the 
theory  that  sick  folks  needed  air.  Aunt  Hill  was 
very  large,  and  she  creaked  as  she  breathed,  be 
cause,  when  she  was  visiting,  even  in  the  coun 
try,  she  put  on  her  black  silk  of  an  afternoon. 


84  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

She  had  thick  black  hair,  smooth  under  a  ficti 
tious  gloss,  and  done  in  a  way  to  be  seen  now 
only  in  daguerreotypes  of  long  ago,  and  her  dull 
black  eyes  were  masterful.  Mrs.  Joyce,  gazing 
miserably  up  at  her  daughter,  was  a  shred  of  a 
thing  in  contrast,  and  Stella  at  once  felt  a  passion 
ate  pity  for  her. 

"  There,  aunt  Hill,"  she  said  daringly,  "  I 
wouldn't  fan  mother  any  more  if  I's  you.  Let 
me  see  if  I  can  get  at  you,  mother.  I  'm  goin' 
to  rub  your  back." 

Aunt  Hill,  with  a  quiver  of  professional  pride 
wounded  to  the  quick,  did  lay  down  the  fan  on 
a  stand  at  her  elbow.  She  was  listening. 

"  Where  's  Jerry  ?  "  she  demanded.  "  I  don't 
hear  nobody  in  the  fore-room." 

Stella  was  manipulating  her  mother  with  a 
brisk  yet  tender  touch. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  I  told  him  he  'd  have  to  poke 
along  back  to-night.  I  wanted  to  rub  mother 
'fore  she  got  sleepy." 

"  Now  you  need  n't  ha'  done  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Joyce  from  a  deep  seclusion,  her  face  turned 
downward  into  the  pillow.  "  He  must  be  awful 
disappointed,  dressin'  himself  up  an'  all,  an' 
'pearin'  out  for  nothin'." 

"  Well,"  said  Stella,  "  there 's  more  Saturday 
nights  comin'." 

"  I  wanted  to  see  Jerry,"  complained  aunt 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  85 

Hill.  "  I  could  ha'  set  with  your  mother.  Well, 
I  '11  go  in  an'  put  out  the  fore-room  lamp." 

Stella  was  always  being  irritated  by  aunt 
Hill's  officious  services  in  the  domestic  field,  but 
now  she  was  glad  to  watch  her  portly  back  di 
minishing  through  the  doorway. 

"  You  need  n't  ha'  done  that,"  her  mother  was 
murmuring  again.  "  I  feel  real  tried  over  it." 

"  Jerry  wanted  to  know  how  you  were,"  said 
Stella  speciously.  "  He 's  awful  sorry  you  're 
laid  up." 

"Well,  I  knew  he'd  be,"  said  Mrs.  Joyce. 
"  Jerry's  a  good  boy." 

The  week  went  by  and  her  back  was  better; 
but  when  Saturday  night  came,  aunt  Hill  had 
not  gone  home.  She  had,  instead,  slipped  on  a 
round  stick  in  the  shed  while  she  was  picking 
up  chips  nobody  wanted,  and  sprained  her  ankle 
slightly.  And  now  she  sat  by  the  kitchen  fire  in 
a  state  of  deepest  gloom,  the  foot  on  a  chair, 
and  her  active  mind  careering  about  the  house, 
seeking  out  conditions  to  be  bettered.  She  wore 
her  black  silk  no  more,  lest  in  her  sedentary 
durance  she  should  "  set  it  out,"  and  her  delaine 
wrapper  with  palm-leaves  seemed  to  Stella  like 
the  archipelagoes  they  used  to  define  at  school, 
and  inspired  her  to  nervous  laughter.  It  was 
the  early  evening,  and  Mrs.  Joyce,  not  entirely 
free  from  her  muscular  fetters,  went  back  and 


86  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

forth  from  table  to  sink,  doing  the  dishes,  while 
Stella  moulded  bread. 

There  was  a  step  on  the  icy  walk.  Stella 
stopped  an  instant,  her  hands  on  the  cushion  of 
dough,  the  red  creeping  into  her  face.  Then 
she  dusted  her  palms  together  and  went  ever  so 
softly  but  quickly  to  the  front  entry,  closing  the 
door  behind  her.  Aunt  Hill,  pricking  up  her 
ears,  heard  the  outer  door  open  and  the  note  of 
a  man's  voice. 

"  You  see  'f  you  can  tell  who  that  is,"  she 
counseled  Mrs.  Joyce,  who  presently  ap 
proached  the  door  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  latch. 
But  it  stuck,  she  thought  with  wonder.  Stella 
was  holding  it  from  the  other  side. 

Jerry,  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  stood  out  there 
on  the  step,  and  Stella  was  facing  him.  There 
was  a  note  of  concern  in  her  voice  when  she 
spoke  —  of  mirth,  too,  left  there  by  aunt  Hill's 
archipelagoes. 

"  O  Jerry,"  she  said,  "  I  'm  awful  sorry.  You 
need  n't  ha'  come  over  to-night." 

"  She  ain't  gone,  has  she  V"  inquired  Jerry,  in 
a  voice  of  perilous  distinctness. 

"  Don't  speak  so  loud.  She 's  got  ears  like  a 
fox.  No,  but  I  could  ha'  put  her  off  somehow.  I 
never  thought  of  your  comin'  over  to-night." 

"Well,  I  thought  of  it,"  said  Jerry.  "I  ain't 
seen  your  mother  for  quite  a  spell." 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  87 

"Oh,  she's  all  right  now.  There!  I  feel  aw 
fully  not  to  ask  you  in,  but  aunt  Hill's  ankle  an' 
all  — good-night." 

He  turned  away  after  a  look  at  the  bright 
knocker  that,  jumping  out  at  him  from  the 
dusk,  almost  made  it  seem  as  if  the  door  had 
been  shut  in  his  face.  But  he  went  crunch 
ing  down  the  path,  and  Stella  returned,  to 
wash  her  hands  at  the  sink  and  resume  her 
moulding. 

"  Law !  "  said  aunt  Hill,  "  your  cheeks  are 's 
red  as  fire.  Who  was  it  out  there  ?  " 

"Jerry  Norton."  Stella's  voice  sank,  in  spite 
of  her.  That  unswerving  gaze  on  her  cheeks 
made  her  feel  out  in  the  world,  in  a  strong 
light,  for  curiosity  to  jeer  at. 

"  Jerry  Norton  ?  "  aunt  Hill  was  repeating  in 
a  loud  voice.  "  Well,  I  '11  be  whipped  if  it  ain't 
Saturday  night  an'  you've  turned  him  away 
ag'in.  What 's  got  into  you,  Stella  ?  I  never 
thought  you  was  one  to  blow  hot  an'  blow  cold 
when  it  come  to  a  fellow  like  Jerry  Norton. 
Good  as  gold,  your  mother  says  he  is,  good  to 
his  mother  an'  good  to  his  sister,  an'  now  he  's 
took  his  aunt  home  to  live  with  'em." 

"  I  can't  'tend  to  callers  when  there 's  sickness 
in  the  house,"  Stella  plucked  up  spirit  to  say, 
and  her  mother  returned  wonderingly,  - 

"  Why,  it  ain't  sickness  exactly,  aunt  Hill's 


88  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

ankle  ain't.  I  wish  I  could  ha'  got  out  there.  I  'd 
have  asked  him  in." 

Before  the  next  Saturday  aunt  Hill's  ankle  had 
knit  itself  up  and  she  was  gone.  When  Stella  and 
her  mother  sat  down  to  supper  in  their  wonted 
seclusion,  Stella  began  her  deferred  task.  She 
was  inwardly  excited  over  it,  and  even  a  little 
breathless.  It  seemed  incredible  to  her,  still,  that 
Jerry  and  she  had  parted,  and  it  would,  she  knew, 
seem  so  to  her  mother  when  she  should  be  told. 
She  sat  eating  cup-cake  delicately,  but  with  an 
ostentatious  relish,  to  prove  the  robustness  of 
her  state. 

"  Mother,"  she  began. 

"  Little  more  tea  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Joyce,  holding 
the  teapot  poised. 

u  No.  I  want  to  tell  you  somethin'." 

u  I  guess  I  '11  have  me  a  drop  more,"  said  Mrs. 
Joyce.  "  Nobody  need  to  tell  me  it  keeps  me 
awake.  I  lay  awake  anyway." 

Stella  took  another  cup-cake  in  bravado. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  Jerry  'n'  I  've  concluded 
to  give  it  up." 

"  Give  what  up  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Joyce,  finding 
she  had  the  brew  too  sweet  and  pouring  herself 
another  drop. 

"  Oh,  everything!  We  Ve  changed  our  minds." 

Mrs.  Joyce  set  down  her  cup. 

"  You  ain't  broke  off  with  Jerry  Norton  ?  " 


SATURDAY  JSTIGHT  89 

"  Yes.  We  broke  it  off  together." 

"You  needn't  tell  me  'twas  Jerry  Norton's 
fault."  Mrs.  Joyce  pushed  her  cup  from  her  and 
winked  rapidly.  "  He  's  as  good  a  boy  as  ever 
stepped,  an'  he  sets  by  you  as  he  does  his  life." 

Stella  was  regarding  her  in  wonder,  a  gentle 
little  creature  who  omitted  to  say  her  soul  was 
her  own  on  ordinary  days,  yet  rousing  herself, 
with  ruffled  feathers,  to  defend,  not  her  young, 
but  the  alien  outside  the  nest. 

"  If  he  had  give  you  the  mitten,  I  should  n't 
blame  him  a  mite,  turnin'  him  away  from  the  door 
as  you  have  two  Saturday  nights  runnin'.  But  he 
ain't  done  it.  I  know  Jerry  too  well  for  that.  His 
word 's  as  good 's  his  bond,  an'  you  '11  go  through 
the  wroods  an'  get  a  crooked  stick  at  last." 

Then  she  looked  across  at  Stella,  as  if  in  amaze 
ment  over  her  own  fury;  but  Stella,  liking  her  for 
it  and  thrilled  by  its  fervor,  laughed  out  because 
that  was  the  way  emotion  took  her. 

"  You  can  laugh,"  said  her  mother,  nodding 
her  head,  as  she  rose  and  began  to  set  away  the 
dishes.  "  But  'fore  you  git  through  with  this 
you  '11  laugh  out  o'  t'other  side  o'  your  mouth, 
an'  so  I  tell  ye." 

Upon  her  words  there  was  a  step  at  the  door, 
and  Stellaknewthe  step  was  Jerry's.  Her  mother, 
with  the  prescience  born  of  ire,  knew  it  too. 

"There  he  is,"  she  said.  " Now  you  go  to 


90  COUNTEY  NEIGHBOKS 

cuttin'  up  any  didos,  things  gone  as  fur  as  they 
have,  an'  you  '11  repent  this  night's  work  the 
longest  day  you  live.  You  be  a  good  girl  an'  go 
'n'  let  him  in !  " 

She  had  returned  to  her  placidity,  a  quiet  do 
mestic  fowl  whose  feathers  were  only  to  be  ruffled 
when  some  terrifying  shadow  flitted  overhead. 

Stella  flew  to  the  door  and  opened  it  on  her 
lover,  standing  still  and  calm,  like  a  figure  set 
there  by  destiny  to  conquer  her. 

"  Jerry,"  she  burst  forth  out  of  the  nervous 
thrill  her  mother  had  awakened  in  her,  "  you  're 
botherin'  me  'most  to  death.  It 's  awful  not  to  ask 
you  in  when  you  come  to  the  door,  and  you  a 
neighbor  so.  But  I  can't.  You  know  I  can't.  It 
ain't  as  if  you  'd  come  in  the  day-time.  But  Sat 
urday  night —  it's  just  as  if  —  why,  you  know 
what  Saturday  night  is.  It 's  just  as  if  we  were 
goin'  together." 

Jerry  stood  there  immovable,  looking  at  her. 
He  had  shaved  and  he  wore  the  red  tie  she  had 
given  him.  Perhaps  it  was  not  so  much  that  she 
saw  him  clearly  through  the  early  dusk  as  that 
she  knew  from  memory  how  kind  his  eyes  were 
and  what  a  healthy  color  flushed  his  face.  It 
seemed  to  her  at  this  moment  as  if  Jerry  was  the 
nicest  person  in  the  world,  if  only  he  would  n't 
plague  her  so.  But  he  was  speaking  out  of  his 
persistent  quiet 


SATUKDAY  NIGHT  91 

"I  might  as  well  tell  you,  Stella,  an'  you 
might  as  well  make  up  your  mind  to  it.  It  ain't 
to-night  only.  I'm  comin'  here  every  Saturday 
night." 

She  was  near  crying  with  the  vexation  of  it. 

"  But  you  can't,  Jerry,"  she  said.  "  I  don't 
want  you  to." 

"  You  used  to  want  me  to,"  said  he  composedly. 

"Well,  that  was  when  we  were — " 

"  When  we  were  goin'  together."  He  nodded 
in  acceptance  of  the  quibble.  "  Well,  if  you 
wanted  me  once,  ?.  girl  like  you,  you  '11  want  me 
ag'in.  An'  anyways,  I  'm  comin'." 

Stella  felt  a  curious  thrill  of  pride  in  him. 

"  Why,  Jerry,"  she  faltered,  "  I  did  n't  know 
you  took  things  that  way." 

He  was  answering  quite  simply,  as  if  he  had 
hardly  guessed  it  either. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  myself  how  I  'm  goin'  to 
take  things  till  I  've  thought  'em  out.  That 's  the 
only  way.  Then,  after  ye  've  made  up  your  mind, 
ye  can  stick  to  it." 

Stella  fancied  there  was  a  great  deal  in  this  to 
think  over,  but  she  creaked  the  door  insinuat 
ingly. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "  I'm  awful  sorry — " 

"  I  won't  keep  you  stan'in'  here  in  the  cold. 
I  '11  be  over  ag'in  next  Saturday  night." 

Stella  went  in  and  sat  down  by  the  hearth  and 


92  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

crossed  her  feet  on  the  head  of  one  of  the  fire- 
dogs.  She  was  frowning,  and  yet  she  was  laugh 
ing  too.  Her  mother,  moving  back  and  forth, 
cast  inquiring  looks  at  her. 

"  Well,"  she  ventured  at  last,  "you  made  it  up 
betwixt  ye?" 

Stella  put  down  her  feet  and  rose  to  help. 

"  Don't  you  ask  me  another  question,"  she 
commanded,  rather  airily.  "  It 's  all  over  and 
done  with,  and  I  told  you  so  before.  Le  's  pop 
us  some  corn  by  'n'  by." 

Before  the  next  Saturday  something  had  hap 
pened.  Stella  walked  over  to  the  Street  to  buy 
some  thread,  and  Matt  Pillsbury  brought  her 
home  in  his  new  sleigh  with  the  glossy  red  back 
and  the  scrolls  of  gilt  at  the  corners.  Matt  was 
a  lithe,  animated  youth  who  could  do  many  un 
expected  and  serviceable  things :  a  little  singing, 
a  little  violin-playing,  and  tricks  with  cards.  He 
was  younger  than  Stella,  but  he  reflected,  as  he 
drove  with  her  over  the  smooth  road,  nobody 
would  ever  know  it  because  he  was  dark  and  she 
was  fair,  and  he  resolved  to  let  his  mustache 
grow  a  little  longer  and  curl  it  more  at  the  ends. 
Mrs.  Joyce  was  away  when  this  happened,  quilt 
ing  at  Deacon  White's;  but  all  the  next  day, 
which  was  Saturday,  she  remained  perfectly 
aware  that  Stella  was  making  plans,  and  when 
at  seven  o'clock  the  girl  came  down  in  her  green 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  93 

plaid  with  her  gold  beads  on,  Mrs.  Joyce  drew 
the  breath  of  peace. 

"  Well,  there,"  she  said,  "  if  you  behave  as 
well  as  you  look,  you  '11  do  well,  an'  if  Jerry 
don't  say  so  I  '11  miss  my  guess." 

Stella  was  gazing  at  her,  trembling  a  little,  but 
defiant  also. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  if  Jerry  comes,  you  go 
to  the  door  and  you  tell  him  —  oh,  my  soul !  I 
believe  there  he  is  now." 

But  in  the  next  instant  it  seemed  to  her  just 
as  well.  She  could  tell  him  herself.  She  flew  to 
the  door  in  a  whirl.  But  she  got  no  further  than 
his  name.  Jerry  took  her  with  a  hand  on  either 
side  of  her  waist  and  set  her  back  into  the  entry. 
Then  he  shut  the  door  behind  him  and  laid  his 
palms  upon  her  shoulders.  She  could  hear  his 
breath,  and  it  occurred  to  her  to  wonder  if  he 
had  been  running,  the  blood  must  be  pumping 
so  through  his  heart.  He  was  speaking  in  a  tone 
she  had  never  heard  from  any  man. 

"  What 's  this  about  your  goin'  to  the  sociable 
with  Matt  Pillsbury?" 

She  stiffened  and  flung  back  defiance. 

"  I  'm  goin',  that 's  all.  How  'd  you  know 
it?" 

"I  was  over  to  the  store  an'  Lottie  Pillsbury 
come  in  an'  I  heard  her  tell  Jane  Hunt :  '  Brother 
Matt  asked  her,  an'  she  says  she 's  goin'.' ': 


94  COUNTKY  NEIGHBOKS 

"  Well,  it 's  true  enough.  I  expect  him  along 
in  three-quarters  of  an  hour." 

"  Well,  he  won't  come."  That  strange  savage 
thrill  in  his  voice  frightened  her,  and  before  she 
could  remember  they  were  not  going  together, 
she  was  clinging  to  his  arm. 

"  O  Jerry,"  she  breathed,  "  you  ain't  done  him 
any  mischief  V"  But  his  arms  were  about  her  and 
she  was  locked  to  his  heart. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  ain't — yet."  He  laughed  a 
little.  "  I  stood  out  in  the  road  till  I  heard  him 
go  into  the  barn  to  harness.  Then  he  went  back 
into  the  house  to  change  his  clo'es.  An'  I  walked 
into  the  barn  an'  unblanketed  the  horse  an'  slung 
away  the  bells  an'  druv  the  horse  down  to  the 
meetin'-house,  an'  left  him  there  in  the  sheds." 

Stella  laughed  with  the  delight  of  it.  She  felt 
wild  and  happy,  and  it  came  to  her  that  a  man 
who  could  behave  like  this  when  he  had  made 
up  his  mind,  might  be  allowed  a  long  time  in 
coming  to  it.  But  she  tried  reproving  him. 

"  O  Jerry,  the  horse  '11  freeze  to  death !" 

"  No,  he  won't.  He 's  all  blanketed.  Besides, 
little  Jim  Pillsbury  's  there  tendin'  the  fire  for 
the  sociable,  an'  he  '11  find  him.  Now — "  his  voice 
took  on  an  added  depth  of  that  strange  new 
quality  she  shivered  under  —  "Matt '11  be  over 
here  in  a  minute  to  tell  you  he  's  lost  his  horse 
an'  can't  go.  You  want  me  to  harness  up  an'  take 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  95 

him  an'  you  in  the  old  pung,  or  you  want  to  stay 
here  with  me?" 

Stella  touched  his  cheek  with  her  finger  in  a 
way  she  had,  and  he  remembered  and  bent  and 
kissed  her. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "That  suits  me.  We'll 
stay  here.  Only,  I  don't  want  to  put  ye  to  no 
shame  before  Matt.  That's  why  I  played  a  trick 
on  him  instid  o'  breakin'  his  bones." 

"  O  Jerry !  "  She  had  not  meant  to  tell  him,  but 
it  seemed  she  must.  "I  wasn't  goin'  with  him 
alone.  Lottie  was  goin',  too.  I  told  him  I  wouldn't 
any  other  way." 


A  GRIEF  DEFERRED 

WHEN  Clelia  May  set  forth,  as  she  did  three 
and  four  times  in  the  week,  to  hurry  through 
the  half-mile  of  pine  woods  between  her  house 
and  Sabrina  Thome's,  the  family  usually  asked 
her,  with  the  tolerant  smile  accorded  to  old 
jokes,  whether  she  was  going  to  see  her  inti 
mate  friend.  Clelia  always  answered  from  a 
good-natured  acceptance  of  the  pleasantry,  and 
went  on,  not  in  the  least  puzzled  by  the  cer 
tainty  that  although  she  was  but  twenty-three 
and  Sabrina  was  sixty,  they  were  in  all  ways 
companionable.  It  had  begun  when  Clelia,  a 
child  of  ten,  had  had  a  temper-fit  at  home,  and 
started  out  to  join  the  Shakers.  She  had  met  a 
turkey-gobbler  at  Sabrina's  gate,  and,  ashamed 
to  cry  but  too  obstinate  to  run,  had  stood  in 
blank  horror  until  Sabrina  came  out  and  routed 
the  foe.  Then  Sabrina  had  taken  her  in  to  eat 
honey  and  spend  an  enchanted  afternoon.  After 
that  Sabrina's  house  was  the  delectable  land,  and 
Clelia  fled  to  it  when  she  was  happy  or  when 
the  world  was  against  her. 

To-day  she  walked  swiftly  through  the  warm 
incense  of  the  pines.  It  was  hot  weather,  and 


A  GRIEF  DEFERRED  97 

insects  vexed  the  ear  with  an  unwearied  trill. 
But  the  heat  of  despair  was  greater  in  the  girl 
than  any  such  assault.  Her  cheeks  had  each  a 
deep  red  spot.  Her  eyes  were  dark  with  feel 
ing,  and  on  the  long  black  lashes  hung  fringing 
drops.  She  walked  lightly,  with  springing  strides. 
Beyond  the  pine  woods,  in  the  patch  of  sunny 
road  bordered  by  dust-covered  hardback  and 
elder,  she  paused  for  a  moment,  to  dash  the  tears 
from  her  eyes.  There  in  the  open  day  she  felt 
as  if  some  prying  glance  might  read  her  grief. 
The  woods  were  kinder  to  it. 

Sabrina's  house  was  at  the  first  turning,  a 
gray,  weather-beaten  dwelling  of  mellow  tones, 
set  within  a  generous  sweep  of  green.  It  had 
a  garden  in  front.  Sabrina  herself  was  in  the 
garden  now,  weeding  the  balm-bed.  Sometimes 
Clelia  thought  the  garden  was  almost  too  sweet 
after  Sabrina  had  been  there  stirring  up  the 
scents.  At  least  a  third  of  it  was  given  to  herbs, 
and  even  the  touch  of  a  skirt  in  passing  would 
brush  out  fragrance  from  it.  There  were  things 
there  that  strangely  seemed  to  have  no  smell  at 
all;  but  grown  in  such  rank  masses,  they  con 
tributed  mysteriously  to  the  alembic  of  the  year. 

Sabrina,  risen  to  her  feet  now,  had  a  look  of 
youth  touched  by  something  that  was  not  so 
much  age  as  difference.  She  was  slender,  and 
still  with  a  girl's  symmetry,  the  light-footed 


98  COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

way  of  moving,  the  little  sinuous  graces  of  a 
body  unspoiled  and  delighting  in  its  own  uses. 
Her  face  had  a  rounded  plumpness,  and  her 
cheeks  were  pink.  People  said  now,  as  they  had 
in  her  youth,  that  Sabrina  Thorne  had  the  skin 
of  a  baby.  One  old  woman,  chiefly  engaged 
in  marking  down  human  commodities,  always 
added  that  it  was  because  of  that  heart  trouble 
Sabrina  had;  but  nobody  listened.  Sabrina 
seemed  to  have  made  no  concession  to  time, 
save  that  her  waving  hair  was  white.  In  its 
beauty  and  abundance,  it  was  a  marvel.  It 
sprang  thickly  up  on  each  side  of  her  parting, 
and  the  soft  mass  of  it  was  wound  round  and 
round  on  the  top  of  her  head.  She  was  a  beauti 
ful  being,  neither  old  nor  young. 
•  She  stood  there  smiling  at  Clelia's  approach. 

"  How  do?"  she  said  softly;  but  when  the 
girl  was  near  enough  to  betray  the  trouble  of 
her  face,  she  added,  "  Whatever  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Come  into  the  house,  Sabrina,"  said  Clelia, 
in  a  muffled  voice.  "  I  can't  tell  it  out  here." 

Sabrina  dropped  her  trowel  on  a  heap  of 
weeds,  and  cast  her  gardening  gloves  on  the 
top.  She  led  the  way  to  the  house,  and  when 
they  were  in  the  coolness  of  the  big  sitting-room 
with  its  air  of  inherited  repose,  she  turned  about 
and  spoke  again  in  her  round,  low  voice. 
"  Well  ?"  There  was  anxiety  in  the  tone. 


A  GRIEF  DEFERRED  99 

Clelia,  facing  her,  began  to  speak  with  a  hard 
composure. 

"  Richmond  —  Richmond  Blake  — "  and  her 
voice  broke.  She  threw  herself  forward  upon 
Sabrina's  shoulder  and  clasped  her  with  shak 
ing  hands.  "  He  has  given  me  up,  Sabrina,"  she 
moaned,  between  her  sobs.  "  It  is  over.  He  has 
given  me  up." 

Sabrina  led  her  to  the  great  chair  by  the 
window,  and  forced  her  into  it.  Then  she  knelt 
beside  her  and  drew  the  girl's  head  again  to  her 
shoulder.  She  patted  her  cheek  with  little  regu 
lar  beats  that  had  a  rhythmic  soothing. 

"  There,  there,  dear,"  she  kept  saying. "  There, 
there ! " 

Presently  Clelia  choked  down  her  sobs,  and 
raised  her  face,  tempestuous  in  its  marks  of 
grief. 

"  I  'd  just  as  soon  tell  you,"  she  said,  with  a 
broken  hardness,  a  composure  struggled  for  and 
then  lost.  "  I  'd  just  as  soon  anybody  would 
know  it.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I'd  any  use  for  my 
self,  now  he  don't  prize  me.  Well,  Sabrina,  he 
don't  want  me  any  more." 

"You  sure,  dear?"  asked  Sabrina.  "You 
better  be  sure." 

"  We  got  talking  about  the  land,"  said  Clelia, 
in  a  high  voice. 

"  The  ten-acre  lot  ?  " 


100          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  Yes.  I  said  to  him:  '  There 's  that  man  from 
New  York.  He  's  offered  you  two  hundred  dol 
lars  for  it.  Why  don't  you  take  it  ?' ' 

"  What 's  the  man  from  New  York  want  it 
for?"  asked  Sabrina,  with  what  seemed  a  tri 
fling  irrelevance. 

Clelia  answered  impatiently. 

"  I  don't  know.  To  build  a  summer  cottage,  I 
suppose.  That 's  what  Richmond  asked  me,  and 
I  said  I  did  n't  know.  Then  he  said  he  was  n't  go 
ing  to  sell  till  he  knew  what  he  was  selling  for." 

"  Well,  I  call  that  kinder  long-headed,  myself," 
said  Sabrina. 

"  So  you  might ;  but  the  New  York  man  went 
away  that  afternoon.  (  Well,'  says  he,  before  he 
went,  '  that 's  my  offer.  Take  it  or  leave  it.' '! 

"  But  that 's  nothing  to  be  mad  about." 

"  We  did  n't  stop  there.  I  reminded  Rich  how 
far  that  money  would  go  towards  building,  and 
his  jaw  got  set,  and  he  said  he  couldn't  help  it. 
Then  I  told  him  I  'd  be  switched  if  ever  I  lived 
with  his  folks  —  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear  ! "  lamented  Sabrina.  "  You 
did  n't  say  that,  did  you  ?  Now  you  must  n't, 
dear.  You  mustn't  say  things  folks  can't 
forget." 

A  gush  of  tears  flooded  the  girl's  cheeks. 

"  Oh,  I  did  n't  mean  to !  "  she  cried,  in  the  bit 
terness  of  remembering  a  battle  lost.  "  He  knew 


A  GRIEF  DEFSKKED  .101 

I  didn't  mean  to.  But  I  got  sort  of  crazy, 
Sabrina.  I  did.  And  I  told  him  at  last  —  "  Her 
eyelids  dropped  under  their  weight  of  tears. 

"  What  did  you  tell  him  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  he  could  choose  between  his  folks 
and  me." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said,  'I'll  choose  now.  It's  over.'  He 
got  up  and  walked  out  of  the  room.  He  turned 
at  the  door.  '  It 's  over,  Clelia,'  says  he.  '  Don't 
you  ever  call  me  back,  for  I  sha'n't  come.'  And 
he  won't.  He  ain't  that  kind." 

u  Oh,  me !  oh,  me ! "  moaned  Sabrina.  She,  too, 
knew  he  was  not  that  kind. 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment,  the  girl  look 
ing  straight  before  her  in  a  dull  acquiescence,  and 
Sabrina's  pink  face  settled  into  aging  lines.  Sud 
denly  the  girl  spoke  sharply. 

"  But  I  can't  bear  it,  Sabrina,  I  can't  bear  it. 
It  will  kill  me  — if  I  don't  kill  myself." 

Sabrina  rose  slowly,  and  took  a  chair  at  the 
other  window. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  you  can  bear  it.  Other  folks 
have  gone  through  it  before  you,  an'  other  folks 
will  again.  It 's  a  kind  of  a  sickness  there 's  goin' 
to  be  as  long  as  the  earth  turns  round.  You  've 
got  to  bear  it." 

Her  voice  struck  sharply,  and  Clelia,  called 
momentarily  out  of  herself,  glanced  at  her  with 


102         .COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

a  sudden  interest.  For  the  first  time  since  their 
intimacy,  Sabrina  looked  her  age. 

Little  fine  lines  seemed  to  have  started  out 
upon  her  cheeks  and  forehead.  Her  eyes  had  the 
look  of  grief.  But  Clelia's  thoughts  went  back 
at  once  to  her  own  trouble.  She  spoke  gravely 
now,  like  an  older  woman. 

"  It 's  not  because  we  Ve  quarreled,  Sabrina. 
I  'd  say  I  was  sorry  this  minute.  But  he  would  n't 
take  me  back.  It  shows  he  don't  care.  If  he  'd 
cared  about  me,  he  'd  have  thought 't  was  a  little 
thing;  but  he 's  chosen  between  us,  and  he  won't 
go  back." 

"  Well,"  said  Sabrina  conclusively,  "  however 
it  turns  out,  it 's  here  an'  you  Ve  got  to  face  it. 
Clelia,  I  Ve  a  good  mind  to  tell  you  somethin'  I 
ain't  ever  told  anybody." 

"  Yes,"  said  Clelia  indifferently,  her  mind  upon 
herself.  "  Yes,  tell  me." 

Sabrina  folded  her  hands  upon  her  lap  and  set 
her  gaze  straight  forward,  and  yet  with  a  re 
moved  look,  as  if  she  had  withdrawn  into  the 
past. 

"  I  don't  know  as  you  ever  knew,  Clelia,"  she 
said,  and  Clelia  at  once  thought  that  it  was  as  if 
she  were  reading  from  a  book,  "  but  when  I  was 
about  your  age,  I  come  near  bein'  married." 

"  Father  said  you  were  much  sought  after," 
said  Clelia,  with  a  prim  shyness  not  like  her  own 


A  GRIEF  DEFERRED  103 

stormy  confession.  Sabrina,  with  her  white  hair 
and  her  young  face  seemed  somehow  set  apart 
from  love  and  the  sweet  uses  of  it. 

"  I  guess  he  never  knew  about  that  particular 
one.  Nobody  knew  that.  I  had  as  good  a  time  as 
you  Ve  had,  Clelia.  I  liked  him  the  same  way. 
I  Ve  thought  of  it,  day  in,  day  out,  when  I  Ve 
seen  you  with  Richmond  Blake.  I  Ve  never  been 
so  near  livin'  since  as  I  have  when  I  Ve  seen  you 
an' Richmond  together  out  in  that  gardin,laughin' 
an'  jokin'  in  amongst  the  flowers.  Well,  he  give 
me  up,  dear.  He  give  me  up." 

Her  hands  took  a  firmer  hold  on  each  other. 
Her  face  convulsed  into  a  deeper  grief;  and 
Clelia,  who  had  never  seen  her  moved  with  any 
emotion  that  concerned  herself  alone,  gazed  at 
her  in  awe,  with  her  own  passion  quieting  as  she 
confronted  that  of  one  so  old,  yet  living  still. 

"  Did  you  —  have  words  ?  "  she  ventured. 

"  No,  dear,  no.  I  guess  we  could  n't  have  had, 
I  felt  so  humble  towards  him.  I  never  forgot  a 
minute  how  good  it  was  to  have  him  like  me. 
No.  There  was  somebody  else.  You  see  he  was 
terrible  smart.  He  put  himself  through  college, 
an'  then  he  met  her,  an'  she  was  just  as  smart 
as  he  was.  Lively,  too,  I  guess.  I  never  see  her. 
But  I  hadn't  anything  but  my  good  looks — I  was 
real  pretty  then.  I  had  that  an'  a  kind  of  a  way 
of  keepin'  house  an'  makin'  folks  comfortable. 


104          COUNTKY  NEIGHBOKS 

Well,  I  found  out  he  didn't  prize  me;  so  I  give 
him  his  freedom.  An'  he  was  glad,  dear,  he  was 
glad." 

She  rocked  back  and  forth  for  a  moment,  in 
forgetfulness  of  any  save  the  long-past  moment 
when  she  was  alive. 

"  O  Sabrina !  "  breathed  the  girl. 

It  recalled  her.  She  straightened,  and  resumed 
the  habit  of  an  ordered  life. 

"  ISTow  this  is  what  I  was  comin'  to,"  she  said, 
"  the  way  to  bear  it.  It  ain't  a  light  thing.  It 's 
.a  heavy  one.  A  lot  o'  folks  go  through  with  it, 
an'  they  take  it  different  ways.  Sometimes  their 
minds  give  out.  Folks  say  they  're  love-cracked. 
Sometimes  they  die.  Yes,  Clelia,  often  I've 
thought  that  would  be  the  easiest.  But  there 's 
other  ways." 

Clelia's  tears  were  dried.  She  sat  upright  and 
looked  at  the  woman  opposite.  It  suddenly  seemed 
to  her  that  she  had  never  known  Sabrina.  She 
had  seen  her  nursing  the  sick  or  in  the  garden, 
smiling  over  her  gentle  tasks;  but  she  had  not 
known  her.  Sabrina  spoke  now  with  authority  5 
as  if  she  were  passing  along  the  laws  of  life  into 
hands  outstretched  for  them. 

"  When  it  happened  to  me,  mother  was  sick. 
She  had  creepin'  paralysis,  an'  I  had  to  be  with 
her  'most  every  minute.  When  I  got  my  letter, 
I  was  in  the  gardin,  right  there  by  the  spearmint 


A  GRIEF  DEFERRED  105 

bed.  You  see  I  'd  written  him,  dear,  to  offer  him 
his  freedom ;  but  I  found  out  afterwards  I  must 
have  thought,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  he 
wouldn't  take  it.  Well,  I  opened  the  letter. 
'T  was  a  hot  summer  day  like  this.  He  took  what 
I  offered  him,  dear,  —  he  never  knew  I  cared,  — 
an'  he  was  pleased.  The  letter  showed  it.  I  spoke 
out  loud.  <  O  God,'  I  says,  '  I  don't  believe  it! ' 
Then  I  heard  mother's  voice  callin'  me.  She 
wanted  a  drink  o'  water.  I  begun  steppin'  in  kind 
o'  blinded,  to  get  it  for  her.  Seemed  as  if  't  was 
miles  across  the  balm-bed.  'I  mustn't  fall,'  I 
says  to  myself.  '  I  must  n't  die  till  mother  does.' 
And  then  somethin'  put  it  into  my  head  I  need  n't 
believe  it  nor  I  need  n't  give  up  to  it,  not  till 
mother  died.  Then  't  would  be  time  enough  to 
know  I  'd  got  a  broken  heart." 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  she  had  never  faced  her 
grief  before.  She  abandoned  herself  to  the  savor 
of  it,  the  girl  forgotten. 

"  Well,  mother  died,  an'  that  night  after  the 
funeral  I  set  down  by  the  window  where  I  'm 
settin'  now  an'  says,  '  Now  I  can  think  it  over.' 
But  I  knew  as  well  as  anything  ever  was  that 
when  I  faced  it  't  would  take  away  my  reason. 
So  I  says,  ( Mother's  things  have  got  to  be  put 
away.  I  '11  wait  till  then.'  So  I  packed  up  her 
things,  an'  sent  'em  to  her  sister  out  West.  Some 
o'  her  common  ones  't  I  'd  seen  her  wear,  I  burnt 


106          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

up,  so  't  nobody  should  n't  have  'em.  I  put  her  old 
bunnit  into  the  kitchen  stove,  an'  I  can  see  the 
cover  goin'  down  on  it  now.  'T  was  thirty-eight 
year  ago  this  very  summer.  Then  says  I,  '  I  '11 
face  it.'  But  old  Abner  Lake  had  a  shock,  an' 
there  wa'n't  nobody  to  take  care  of  him  less  'n 
they  sent  him  to  the  town  farm,  an'  folks  said 
he  cried  night  an'  day,  knowin'  what  was  before 
him.  So  I  had  him  moved  over  here,  an'  I  tended 
him  till  he  died.  An' so  'twas  with  one  an'  another. 
It  begun  to  seem  as  if  folks  needed  somebody 
that  hadn't  anything  of  her  own  to  keep  her;  an' 
then,  spells  between  their  wantin'  me,  I  'd  say, 
6 1  won't  face  it  till  I  've  cleaned  the  house,'  or 
6  till  I  've  got  the  gardin  made.'  An',  Clelia,  that 
was  the  grief  that  was  goin'  to  conquer  me,  if 
I  'd  faced  it;  an'  I  ain't  faced  it  yet !  I  ain't  be 
lieved  it ! " 

A  sense  of  her  own  youth  and  her  sharp  sor 
row  came  at  once  upon  the  girl,  and  she  cried  out : 

"  I  've  got  to  face  it.  It  won't  let  me  do  any 
thing  else.  It 's  here,  Sabrina.  I  could  n't  help 
feeling  it,  if  I  killed  myself  trying." 

Sabrina's  face  softened  exquisitely. 

"  I  guess 't  is  here,"  she  said  tenderly.  "  I  guess 
you  do  feel  it.  But,  dearie,  there 's  lots  of  folks 
walkin'  round  doin'  their  work  with  their  hearts 
droppin'  blood  all  the  time.  Only  you  must  n't 
listen  to  it.  You  just  say,  <  I  '11  do  the  things  I  've 


A  GRIEF  DEFERRED  107 

got  to  do,  an'  I'll  fix  my  mind  on  'em.  I  won't 
cry  till  to-morrow.'  An'  when  to-morrow  comes, 
you  say  the  same." 

Clelia  set  her  mouth  in  a  piteous  conformity. 
But  it  quivered  back. 

"  I  guess  you  think  I  'm  a  coward,  Sabrina," 
she  said.  "  Well,  I  '11  do  the  best  I  can.  Maybe 
if  't  was  fall  I  could  get  a  school,  and  set  my 
mind  on  that.  I  can  help  mother,  but  she  'd  rather 
manage  things  herself." 

Sabrina  bent  forward,  with  an  eager  gesture. 

"  Dear,  there 's  lots  o'  things,"  she  said.  "The 
earth's  real  pretty.  You  concern  yourself  with 
that.  You  say,  '  I  won't  give  up  till  I  've  seen  the 
apple-blows  once  more.  I  won't  give  up  till  I  've 
got  the  rose-bugs  off'n  the  vines.'  An'  every 
night  says  you  to  yourself, '  I  won't  cry  till  to 


morrow.' 


Clelia  rose  heavily. 

"  You  're  real  good,  Sabrina,"  she  said.  Then 
she  added,  in  a  shy  whisper,  "  And  I  —  I  won't 
ever  tell." 

"  You  sit  right  down,"  returned  Sabrina  vig 
orously,  rising  as  she  said  it.  "  I  '11  bring  you  the 
peas  to  shell.  They  're  late  ones,  an'  they  're  good. 
You  stay,  an'  this  afternoon  we  '11  go  out  an'  pick 
the  elderberries  down  on  the  cross-road.  I  've 
got  to  have  some  wine." 

That  week  and  the  next  Clelia  made  herself 


108          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

listlessly  busy,  and  Sabrina  was  away,  nursing  a 
child  who  was  sick  of  a  fever.  Clelia  was  pon 
dering  now  on  her  own  hurt,  now  on  the  story  her 
friend  had  told  her.  It  seemed  like  a  soothing 
alternation  of  grief,  sometimes  in  the  pitiless 
sun-glare  of  her  own  loss,  and  again  walking  in 
a  darkened  yet  fragrant  valley  where  the  other 
woman  had  lived  for  many  years.  But  on  an 
evening  of  the  third  week,  she  had  news  that  sent 
her  speeding  through  the  Half -Mile  Road  and  in 
at  the  door  where  Sabrina  sat  resting  after  a  hard 
day.  Clelia  was  breathless. 

"  Sabrina,"  she  cried,  "  Sabrina,  Richmond's 
mother 's  sick  and  he 's  away.  He  's  gone  to  New 
York,  and  she  's  left  all  alone  with  aunt  Lu- 
cindy." 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  her  ?  "  asked  Sabrina, 
coming  to  her  feet  and  beginning  to  smooth  her 
hair. 

"  She 's  feverish,  and  aunt  Lucindy  says  she  's 
been  shaking  with  the  cold." 

"  You  sent  for  the  doctor?  " 

Sabrina  was  doing  up  a  little  bundle  of  her 
night-clothes  that  had  lain  on  the  chair  beside 
her  while  she  rested. 

"  No." 

"  Well,  you  do  that,  straight  off.  An'  when 
he  comes,  he  '11  tell  you  what  to  do  an'  you 
do  it." 


A  GRIEF  DEFERRED  109 

"  Can't  you  go,  Sabrina?  Can't  you  go?  Aunt 
Lucindy  wanted  you." 

"  ]STo,"  said  Sabrina,  tying  on  her  hat,  and  tak 
ing  up  her  bundle.  "  I  only  come  to  pick  me  up 
a  few  things.  That  little  creatur'  may  not  live 
the  night  out.  But  I  '11  walk  along  with  you,  an' 
step  in  an'  see  how  things  seem." 

Once  only  in  the  Half -Mile  walk  did  they  speak, 
and  then  Clelia  broke  forth  throbbingly  to  the 
accompaniment  of  a  sudden  color  in  her  cheeks. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  want  to  go  into  Rich 
mond's  house  when  he  's  away,  now  we  're  not 
the  same." 

"  Don't  make  any  difference  whether  it 's  Rich 
mond's  house  or  whether  it  ain't,  if  there 's  sick 
ness,"  returned  Sabrina  briefly.  But  at  the  door- 
stone  she  paused  a  moment,  to  add  with  some 
recurrence  of  the  intensity  the  girl  had  seen  in 
her  that  other  day:  "Ain't  you  glad  you  got 
somethin'  to  do  for  him?  Ain't  you  glad?  You 
go  ahead  an'  do  what  you  can,  an'  call  yourself 
lucky  you  've  got  it  to  do." 

And  Clelia  very  humbly  did  it.  Then  it  was 
another  week,  and  the  two  friends  had  not  met; 
but  again  at  twilight  Clelia  took  her  walk,  and 
this  time  she  found  Sabrina  stretched  out  on  the 
lounge  of  the  sitting-room.  There  was  a  change 
in  her.  Pallor  had  settled  upon  her  face,  and  her 
dark  eyebrows  and  lashes  stood  out  startlingly 


110          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

upon  the  ashen  mask.  Clelia  hurried  up  to  her 
and  knelt  beside  the  couch. 

"  What  is  it,  Sabrina?  "  she  whispered.  "  What 
is  it  ?  " 

Sabrina  opened  her  eyes.  She  smiled  lan 
guidly,  and  the  girl,  noting  the  patience  of  her 
face,  was  thrilled  with  fear. 

"  How 's  Richmond's  mother?  "  asked  Sabrina. 

"  Better.  She  's  sitting  up.  I  sha'n't  be  there 
any  more.  He 's  coming  home  to-night." 

"Richmond?" 

"  Yes.  The  doctor  said  there  was  n't  any  need 
of  sending  for  him,  and  I  'm  glad  we  did  n't,  now. 
Sabrina,  what 's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  had  one  of  my  heart-spells,  that  ?s  all,"  said 
Sabrina  gently.  "  There,  don't  you  go  to  lookin' 
like  that." 

"  What  made  you,  Sabrina  ?  What  made 
you?" 

Sabrina  hesitated. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  at  length,  "  I  guess  I  got 
kinder  startled.  Deacon  Tolman  run  in  an'  told 
what  kind  of  doin's  there  was  goin'  to  be  to 
morrow.  He  was  full  of  it,  an'  he  blurted  it  all 
out  to  once." 

"  About  Senator  Gilman  coming  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  their  trimming  up  the  hall  for  him  to 
speak  in,  and  his  writing  on  it  was  his  boyhood's 


A  GRIEF  DEFERRED  111 

home  and  he  should  n't  die  happy  unless  he  'd 
come  back  and  seen  it  once  more  ?  " 

"Yes.  That's  about  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Clelia,  in  slow  wonder,  "  I  don't 
see  what  there  was  about  that  to  give  anybody 
a  heart-spell." 

Sabrina  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  sharp 
questioning,  followed  by  relief. 

"  ISTo,"  she  said  softly,  "  no.  But  I  guess  I  got 
kinder  startled." 

"  I  'in  going  to  stay  with  you,"  said  Clelia  ten 
derly.  "I'll  stay  all  night." 

"  There  's  a  good  girl.  Now  there 's  some 
body  round,  I  guess  maybe  I  could  drop  off 
to  sleep." 

At  first  Clelia  was  not  much  alarmed;  for 
though  Sabrina  was  known  to  have  heart-spells, 
she  always  came  out  of  them  and  went  on  her 
way  with  the  same  gentle  impregnability.  But 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  she  suddenly  woke 
Clelia  sleeping  on  the  lounge  beside  her,  by  say 
ing  in  a  clear  tone :  — 

"Wouldn't  it  be  strange,  Clelia?" 

"  Would  n't  what  be  strange  ?  "  asked  the  girl, 
instantly  alert. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  strange  if  anybody  put  off 
their  sorrow  all  their  lives  long,  an'  then  died  be 
fore  they  got  a  chance  to  give  way  to  it  ?  " 

"  Sabrina,  you  thinking  about  those  things  ?  " 


112          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  Never  mind,"  answered  Sabrina  soothingly, 
"  I  guess  I  waked  up  kinder  quick." 

But  again,  after  she  had  had  a  sinking  spell, 
and  Clelia  had  given  her  some  warming  drops, 
she  said  half -shyly,  "  Clelia,  maybe  you'll  think 
I  'm  a  terrible  fool ;  but  if  I  should  pass  away, 
there  's  somethin'  I  should  like  to  have  you  do." 

Clelia  knelt  beside  her,  and  put  her  wet  cheek 
down  on  the  little  roughened  hand. 

"  There  was  that  city  boarder  I  took  care  of, 
the  summer  she  gi'n  out  down  here,"  wTent  on 
Sabrina  dreamily.  "  I  liked  her  an'  I  liked  her 
clo'es.  They  were  real  pretty.  She  see  I  liked 
'em,  an'  what  should  she  do  when  she  went  back 
home,  but  send  me  a  blue  silk  wrapper  all  lace 
and  ribbins,  just  like  hers,  only  nicer.  It 's  in  that 
chist.  I  never  've  wore  it.  But  if  I  should  be  taken 
away  —  I  'most  think  I  'd  like  to  have  it  put  on 


me." 


The  cool  summer  dawn  was  flowing  in  at  the 
window.  The  solemnity  of  the  hour  moved  Clelia 
like  the  strangeness  of  the  time.  It  hushed  her 
to  composure. 

"  I  will,"  she  promised.  "  If  you  should  go  be 
fore  me,  I  '11  do  everything  you  want.  Now  you 
get  some  sleep." 

But  after  Sabrina  had  shut  her  eyes  and 
seemed  to  be  drowsing  off,  she  opened  them  to 
say,  this  time  with  an  imperative  strength :  — 


A  GRIEF  DEFEEEED  113 

"  But  don't  you  let  it  spile  their  good  time." 

"  Whose,  Sabrina  V  " 

"  The  doin's  they  're  goin'  to  have  in  the  hall. 
If  I  should  go  in  the  midst  of  it,  don't  you  tell 
no  more  'n  you  can  help.  But  I  guess  I  can  live 
through  one  day  anyways." 

That  forenoon  she  was  a  little  brighter,  as  one 
may  be  with  the  mounting  sun,  and  Clelia,  disre 
garding  all  entreaties  to  see  the  "  doings  "  at  the 
hall,  took  faithful  care  of  her.  But  in  the  late 
afternoon  while  she  sat  beside  the  bed  and  Sa 
brina  drowsed,  there  was  a  clear  whistle  very 
near.  It  sounded  like  a  quail  outside  the  window. 
Clelia  flushed  red.  The  sick  woman,  opening  her 
eyes,  saw  how  she  was  shaking. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  It 's  Eichmond,"  said  Clelia,  in  a  full,  moved 
voice.  "  It 's  his  whistle." 

"  You  go  out  to  him,  dear,"  urged  Sabrina,  as 
if  she  could  not  say  it  fast  enough.  "  You  hurry." 

And  Clelia  went,  trembling. 

When  she  came  back,  half  an  hour  later,  she 
walked  like  a  goddess  breathing  happiness  and 
pride. 

"  O  Sabrina ! "  She  sank  down  by  the  bedside 
and  put  her  head  beside  Sabrina's  cheek.  "  He 
was  there  in  the  garden.  He  kissed  me  right  in 
sight  of  the  road.  If 't  had  been  in  the  face  and  eyes 
of  everybody,  it  could  n't  have  made  any  differ- 


114          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

ence.  '  You  took  care  of  mother/  he  said.  '  I  like 
your  mother,'  I  said.  '  I  'd  like  to  live  with  her  — 
and  aunt  Lucindy.'  And  he  said  then,  Sabrina, 
he  said  then,  '  We  sha'n't  have  to.'  And  Sabrina, 
he  's  been  on  to  New  York  to  see  if  he  could  find 
out  anything  about  the  railroad  that's  going 
through  to  save  stopping  at  the  Junction;  and 
he  saw  Senator  Gilman,  and  that 's  how  the  sen 
ator  came  down  here.  He  got  talking  with  Rich 
mond,  old  times  and  all,  and  he  just  wanted  to 
come.  And  the  railroad's  going  through  the 
ten-acre  pasture,  and  Richmond  '11  get  a  lot  of 
money." 

Sabrina's  hand  rested  on  the  girl's  head. 

"There,  dear,"  she  said  movingly.  "  Did  n't  I 
tell  you  ?  Don't  cry  till  to-morrow,  an'  maybe 
you  won't  have  to  then." 

Clelia  sat  up,  wiping  her  eyes  and  laughing. 

"That  isn't  all,"  she  said.  "  Senator  Gilman 
wants  to  see  you." 

"Me!" 

Sabrina  rose  and  sat  upright  in  bed.  The  color 
flooded  her  pale  cheeks.  Her  eyes  dilated. 

"  Yes.  He  told  Richmond  you  used  to  go  to 
school  together,  and  he 's  coming  down  here  on 
his  way  to  the  train.  And  sick  or  well,  he  said, 
you  'd  got  to  see  him." 

Sabrina  had  put  one  shaking  hand  to  her  hair. 
"It's  turned  white,"  she  whispered. 


A  GKIEF  DEFERRED  115 

But  Clelia  did  not  hear  her.  She  had  opened 
the  chest  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  taken  out  a 
soft  package  delicately  wrapped.  She  pulled  out 
a  score  of  pins  and  shook  the  shimmering  folds 
of  the  blue  dress.  Then  she  glanced  at  Sabrina 
still  sitting  there,  the  color  flooding  her  cheeks 
again  with  their  old  pinkness. 

"  Oh ! "  breathed  Clelia,  in  rapture  at  the 
dress,  and  again  at  the  sweet  rose-bloom  in  Sa- 
brina's  face.  Then  she  calmed  herself,  remem 
bering  this  was  a  sick  chamber,  though  every 
moment  the  airs  of  life  seemed  entering.  She 
brought  the  dress  to  the  bedside.  u  You  put 
your  arm  in,  Sabrina,"  she  coaxed. 

Sabrina  did  it.  She  moved  in  a  daze,  and 
presently  she  was  lying  in  her  bed  clothed  in 
blue  and  white,  her  soft  hair  piled  above  her 
head,  and  her  eyes  wide  with  some  unconfessed 
emotion.  But  to  Clelia,  she  was  accustomed  to 
look  vivid;  life  was  her  portion  always.  The  girl 
sped  out  of  the  room,  and  came  back  presently, 
her  arms  full  of  summer  flowers,  tiger-lilies, 
larkspur,  monkshood,  v,and  herbs  that,  being 
bruised,  gave  out  odors)  Sabrina's  eyes  ques 
tioned  her.  Clelia  tossed  the  flowers  in  a  heap 
on  the  table. 

"  "What  you  doin'  that  for  ?  "  asked  Sabrina. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  girl,  in  a  whis 
per.  "  There 's  no  time  to  put  'em  in  water.  I 


116          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

want  to  have  things  pretty,  that 's  all.  You  take 
your  drops,  dear.  They  've  come." 

But  Sabrina  lay  there,  an  image  of  beauty  in 
a  sea  of  cairn. 

"  I  don't  want  any  drops,"  she  said.  "  I  should 
n't  think  o'  dyin'  now." 

Clelia  went  out,  and  presently  Sabrina  heard 
her  young  voice  with  its  note  of  happiness. 

"  In  this  way,  sir,"  she  was  saying.  "  Yes, 
Rich,  you  stay  in  the  garden.  I'll  be  there." 

Senator  Gilman,  bowing  his  head  under  the 
low  lintel,  was  coming  in.  He  walked  up  to  the 
bedside,  and  Sabrina's  eyes  appraised  him.  He 
was  a  remarkable-looking  man,  with  the  flowing 
profile  of  a  selected  type,  and  thick  gray  hair 
tossed  back  from  his  fine  forehead.  He  sat  down 
by  her. 

"Well,  Bina,"  said  he. 

This  was  not  the  voice  that  had  filled  the  hall 
that  morning  or  jovially  greeted  townsmen  all 
the  afternoon.  It  was  gently  adapted  to  her 
state,  and  Sabrina  quieted  under  its  friendliness. 

"  Could  n't  go  away  without  seeing  you,"  said 
Senator  Gilman.  "  They  told  me  you  were  sick. 
I  said  to  myself,  '  She  '11  see  me.  She  '11  know 
't  would  spoil  my  visit,  if  I  had  to  go  away  with 
out  it.'" 

Sabrina  was  looking  him  sweetly  in  the  face, 
and  smiling  at  him. 


A  GRIEF  DEFERRED  117 

"  How  much  time  you  got  ?  "  she  asked,  like 
a  child. 

He  took  out  his  watch. 

"  My  train  is  at  five  forty-five,"  he  said. 

"  Then  you  talk  fast." 

"  What  you  want  to  know  ?  "  asked  her  friend. 

He  had  fallen  into  homely  ways  of  speech,  to 
fit  the  time. 

"  You  've  done  real  well,  ain't  you  V  "  asked 
Sabrina  eagerly. 

The  senator  nodded. 

"  I  have,  Bina,"  said  he.  "  I  have.  I  Ve  made 
money,  and  I  own  a  grown-up  son.  He  's  got 
all  the  best  of  me  and  the  best  of  all  of  us, 
as  far  back  as  I  can  remember  —  and  none 
of  the  worst.  I'll  send  him  down  here  to  see 
you." 

"  He  must  be  smart,"  said  Sabrina.  "  I  've 
read  his  book." 

"  You  have  ?  Did  n't  know  there  was  a  copy 
in  town.  Nobody  else  here  has  heard  of  it." 

"  I  see  it  noticed  in  the  paper.  I  sent  for  it. 
I  never  spoke  of  it  to  anybody.  I  guess  I  was 
pretty  mean.  Folks  borrow  books,  an'  then  they 
don't  keep  'em  nice." 

"  Bina,  you  're  a  dear.  They  've  been  telling 
me  how  you  take  care  of  the  whole  town.  Rich 
mond  Blake — he's  a  likely  fellow;  he'll  get 
on — he  said  you  were  the  prettiest  woman  in 


118          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

the  township.  Said  his  father  told  him  you  were 
the  prettiest  girl." 

Sabrina's  little  capable  right  hand  went  out 
and  drew  the  sheet  over  her  blue  draperies  up 
to  her  chin. 

"  You  're  not  cold  ?  "  asked  the  senator  solic 
itously  ;  but  she  shook  her  head  and  answered :  — 

"You  Ve  seen  foreign  countries,  ain't  you?  " 

"  Yes.  I  've  seen  India  and  I've  seen  the  Pyr 
amids.  I  thought  about  you  those  times,  Bina — 
how  we  recited  together  in  geography;  and  I 
was  the  one  that  went  and  you  were  the  one  to 
stay  at  home.  But  near  as  I  can  make  out,  you 
Ve  carried  the  world  on  your  shoulders  down 
here,  while  I  Ve  tried  to  do  the  same  thing  some 
where  else  —  and  not  so  well,  Bina  —  not  so 
well." 

Her  sweet  face  clouded.  She  was  jealous  of 
even  a  hint  of  failure  for  him. 

"  But  you  Ve  come  out  pretty  fair?  "  she  hesi 
tated  anxiously. 

"  Pretty  fair,  Bina.  It 's  been  a  good  old  world. 
I  Ve  enjoyed  it,  and  I  don't  know  as  I  shall  want 
to  leave  it.  But  now  I  feel  as  if  I  were  working 
for  the  next  generation.  The  little  I  Ve  done  I 
can  pass  over  to  my  son,  and  I  hope  he'll  do 


more." 


He  laid  his  hand  on  the  garnered  sweets  be 
side  him.  The  herbs  were  uppermost.  "  Spear- 


A   GRIEF  DEFERRED  119 

mint !  "  he  said.  Sabrina  nodded,  and  he  ate  a 
leaf.  Then  one  after  another  he  took  up  the 
herbs,  southernwood  and  all,  and  bruised  them 
to  get  their  separate  fragrance.  It  was  a  keen 
pleasure  to  him,  and  Sabrina  saw  it  and  blessed 
Clelia  in  her  heart.  Presently  he  sat  back  in  his 
chair  and  regarded  her  musingly.  A  softened 
look  came  into  his  eyes.  A  smile,  all  sweetness, 
overspread  his  face.  It  gave  him  his  boyhood's 
mien. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Bina,"  he  said,  "  in  that 
first  rough-and-tumble  before  I  made  my  way, 
you  did  me  a  lot  of  good." 

Sabrina  lay  and  looked  at  him.  Even  her  eyes 
had  a  still  solemnity. 

"  You  wrote  me  a  little  note." 

More  color  surged  into  her  face,  but  she  did 
not  stir. 

"  I  was  pretty  ambitious  then,"  he  went  on 
musingly.  "My  wife  was  ambitious,  too.  That  was 
before  we  were  engaged,  you  understand.  We 
got  kind  of  carried  away  by  people  and  money 
and  honors — that  kind  of  thing,  you  know.  Well, 
that  little  note,  Bina.  There  wasn't  anything 
particular  in  it,  except  at  the  end  you  said,  <  I 
sha'n't  ever  forget  to  hope  you  will  be  good.'  It 
was  queer,  but  it  made  me  feel  kind  of  responsi 
ble  to  you.  I  thought  of  you  down  here  in  your 
garden,  and  —  well,  I  don't  know,  Bina.  I  showed 


120          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

that  note  to  my  wife,  and  she  said,  '  Bina  must 
be  a  dear.' " 

Sabrina's  eyes  questioned  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  frankly.  "  She  's  a  dear,  too  — 
only  different.  It 's  been  all  right,  Bina." 

"  Ain't  that  good ! "  she  whispered  happily. 
"  I  'm  glad." 

He  had  pulled  out  his  watch,  and  at  that  mo 
ment  Richmond's  voice  sounded  clearer,  as  the 
two  out  there  in  the  garden  came  to  summon 
him. 

"  By  George !  "  said  Greenleaf  Gilman, "  I  've 
got  to  go." 

He  rose,  and  took  her  hand.  He  stood  there 
for  a  moment,  holding  it,  and  they  looked  at  each 
other  in  a  faithful  trust. 

"  You  take  some  southernwood,"  counseled 
Sabrina,  and  he  laid  her  hand  gently  down,  to 
select  his  posy. 

"  I  wish  your  wife  could  have  some,"  Sabrina 
went  on,  in  a  wistful  eagerness,  "  I  don't  seem 
to  have  a  thing  to  send  her." 

"  I  '11  tell  her  all  about  it,"  said  her  friend. 
"I'll  tell  her  you  're  a  dear  still,  only  more  so. 
She  '11  understand.  Good-by,  Bina." 

When  his  carriage  had  left  the  gate,  and 
Clelia  came  in  with  that  last  look  of  her  lover 
still  mirrored  in  her  eyes,  Sabrina  lay  there  float 
ing  in  her  sea  of  happiness. 


A  GRIEF  DEFERRED  121 

"  Why,  dear,"  said  the  girl,  drawing  the  sheet 
down  from  the  hidden  finery.  "  You  cold  ?  " 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  Sabrina,  smiling  up  at  her. 

"  Did  you  keep  that  pretty  lace  all  covered 
up  ?  What  made  you,  Sabrina?" 

"  I  don't  know 's  I  could  tell  exactly,"  said 
Sabrina,  in  her  gentle  voice.  "  Now,  dear,  I  'm 
goin'  to  get  this  off  an'  have  my  clo'es.  I'm 
better." 

"  You  do  feel  better,  don't  you  ? "  assented 
Clelia  joyously,  helping  her. 

That  night  they  supped  together  at  the  table, 
and  when  the  dusk  had  fallen  and  Sabrina  sat 
by  the  window  breathing  in  the  evening  cool, 
she  said  shyly,  like  a  bride :  — 

"  Don't  you  see,  dear,  sometimes  we  put  off 
grief  an'  we  don't  need  to  have  it  after  all." 

"  I  see  about  me,"  said  the  girl  tenderly,  "but 
I  don't  see  as  anything  pleasant  has  happened 
to  you." 

"  Why,"  said  Sabrina,  in  a  voice  so  full  and 
sweet  that  for  the  moment  it  seemed  not  to  be 
her  own  hesitating  note,  "  I  ?ve  had  more  happi 
ness  than  most  folks  have  in  their  whole  life. 
I  Ve  had  all  there  is." 


THE  CHALLENGE 

MARIANA  BLAKE,  on  her  way  home  from  Jake 
Preble's  in  the  autumn  twilight,  heard  women's 
voices  sounding  clearly  at  a  distance,  increasing 
in  volume  as  they  neared.  She  knew  the  turn  of 
the  road  would  hide  her  from  them  for  a  minute 
or  two  to  come,  and  depending  on  that  security 
she  stepped  over  the  wall  and  crouched  behind 
the  undergrowth  at  the  foot  of  a  wild  cherry. 
They  were  only  her  neighbors,  Sophronia  Jack 
son  and  Lizzie  Ann  West,  with  whom  she  was 
on  the  kindliest  terms ;  but  for  some  reason  she 
felt  sensitive  to  the  social  eye  whenever  she  was 
carrying  Jake  a  basket  of  her  excellent  cook 
ery  or  returning  with  the  empty  dishes.  Other 
neighbors,  it  was  true,  contributed  delicacies  to 
his  rudimentary  housekeeping,  though  chiefly 
at  festal  times  like  Thanksgiving  and  Christmas ; 
but  Mariana  was  conscious  that  she  had  kept  an 
especial  charge  over  him  since  his  sister  died 
and  left  him  alone.  Yet  this  she  was  never  will 
ing  to  confess,  and  though  she  treasured  what 
she  had  elected  as  her  responsibility,  it  was  with 
an  exceptional  shyness. 

The  voices  came  nearer  at  a  steady  pace,  ac- 


THE  CHALLENGE  123 

companied  at  length  by  the  steady  tread  of  So- 
phronia's  low-heeled  shoes  and  the  pattering  of 
Lizzie  Ann  on  the  harder  side  of  the  road. 
When  they  were  nearly  opposite  the  old  cherry- 
tree,  Sophronia  spoke. 

"  Mercy!  I  stepped  into  a  hole." 

"  Can't  you  remember  that  hole  ? "  Lizzie 
Ann  inquired,  with  her  inconsequent  titter.  "  I've 
had  that  in  mind  ever  since  I  went  to  school.  I 
always  thought  if  I  was  one  of  the  board  o'  se 
lectmen,  I  guess  I  could  manage  to  fill  up  that 
hole." 

"  I  guess  I  shall  have  to  set  down  here  and 
shake  the  gravel  out  o'  my  shoe,"  said  Sophronia. 
"  You  have  this  nice  flat  place,  and  I  '11  set 
where  I  can  get  my  foot  up  easy." 

There  was  the  softest  accompanying  rustle, 
and  they  had  both  sat  down.  Mariana,  over  the 
wall,  gripped  her  basket  with  a  tenser  hand,  as 
if  the  dishes,  of  their  own  accord,  might  clink. 
She  held  her  breath,  too,  smiling  because  she 
knew  the  need  of  caution  would  be  brief.  The 
instant  they  were  settled,  she  told  herself,  they 
would  talk  down  any  such  trifling  sound  as  an 
unconsidered  breath.  She  could  foretell  exactly 
what  they  would  say,  once  they  had  exhausted 
the  topic  of  gravel  in  the  shoe.  It  would  be 
either  the  new  church  cushions,  or  mock  mince- 
pies  for  the  sociable,  or  the  minister's  daughter's 


124          COUNTKY  NEIGHBOKS 

old  canary  that  had  ceased  to  sing  or  to  echo 
the  chirping  of  others,  and  yet  was  regarded 
with  a  devotion  the  parishioners  could  not  in 
dorse.  Mariana  had  seen  both  her  friends  that 
day,  and  each  of  them  had  been  more  keenly 
alive  to  these  topics  than  any. 

"  I  don't  see  what  makes  you  so  sure,"  said 
Sophronia,  in  a  jerky  fashion,  accompanying  the 
attempt  to  draw  her  foot  into  the  position  indi 
cated  for  unlacing. 

"  Because  I  am,"  said  Lizzie  Ann.  "  So  you 
are,  too.  Mariana  Blake  never  '11  marry  in  the 
world.  She  ain't  that  kind." 

"  I  don't  know  why  she  ain't,"  said  her  friend, 
in  an  argumentative  tone  of  the  sort  adopted  to 
carry  on  brilliantly  a  conversation  of  which  both 
participants  know  the  familiar  moves.  "  Mari 
ana's  a  real  pretty  woman,  prettier  by  far  than 
she  was  when  she's  a  girl.  I  know  she 's  gettin9* 
along.  She  was  forty -three  last  April,  but  age 
ain't  everything.  Look  at  aunt  Grinnell.  She 
married  when  she 's  fifty-three,  and  she  was 
homely  's  a  hedge  fence  and  had  n't  any  faculty. 
Nor  she  did  n't  bring  him  a  cent,  either." 

"  Well,  nobody  'd  say  Mariana  was  homely. 
But  she  won't  marry.  Nor  she  would  n't  if  she 
was  eighteen.  She  ain't  that  kind." 

"  There,  I  've  got  it  laced  up,"  said  Sophronia. 
She  seemed  to  settle  into  an  easier  attitude,  and 


THE   CHALLENGE  125 

Mariana  could  hear  the  scratch  of  the  heel  as 
she  thrust  the  rehabilitated  foot  afar  from  her 
on  the  lichened  rock.  "  Well,  I  guess  you  're 
right,  but  I  don't  know  why  it 's  so,  after  all.  If 
I  was  a  man,  seems  if  I  should  think  Jake 
Preble,  now,  was  a  real  likely  fellow  to  marry." 

"  Jake  Preble !  "  Such  distaste  animated  the 
tone  of  that  response  that  Mariana  involuntarily 
raised  herself  from  her  listening  posture,  and 
the  dishes  clinked.  "  What's  that  ?  Did  n't  you 
hear  suthin'  ?  Why,  Jake  Preble  's  a  kind  of  a 
hind  wheel.  He  goes  rollin'  along  after  t'others, 
never  askin'  why  nor  wherefore,  and  he  thinks 
it 's  his  own  free  will.  He  never  so  much  as 
dreams  't  is  the  horse  that 's  haulin'  him." 

"  Well,  what  is 't  he  thinks  't  is  that 's  haulin' 
him  ?  "  asked  Sophronia,  who  was  not  imaginative. 

"  Why,  all  I  mean  is,  he  don't  take  things  for 
what  they  're  wuth.  He  believes  every  goose  's 
a  swan  till  it  up  and  honks,  and  he  's  jest  as 
likely  to  think  a  swan  's  a  goose." 

"  You  don't  mean  he  ain't  suited  with  Ma 
riana?" 

"  No,  no.  I  mean  Mariana  's  cosseted  him  and 
swep'  his  path  afore  him,  carryin'  his  victuals 
and  cleanin'  up  the  house  when  he  's  out  hayin' 
or  cuttin'  wood,  till  he  thinks  it  ain't  so  bad  to 
bach  it  after  all.  If  she  'd  just  let  him  alone  after 
Hattie  died,  and  starved  him  out,  he  'd  ha'nted 


126          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

her  place  oftener  ?n  she  ?s  been  over  to  his,  and 
't  would  n't  ha'  been  long  before  he  learnt  the 
taste  of  her  apple-pies  and  where  they  ought  to 
be  made.  Now  he  knows  they  're  to  be  picked 
mostly  off 'n  his  kitchen  table  when  he  comes  in 
from  work." 

"Mercy,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  think  it 's 
all  victuals,  do  you  ?  "  inquired  Sophronia,  with 
her  unctuous  laugh.  "You  never  had  much 
opinion  o'  men-folks,  anyways,  Lizzie  Ann." 

"  "Well,  they  've  got  to  eat,  ain't  they  ?  "  in 
quired  Lizzie  Ann.  "  That  ?s  all  I  say.  Come, 
ain't  you  got  your  shoe  on  yet  ?  Why,  yes,  you 
have.  Come  along.  There  ?s  a  kind  of  chill  in  the 
air,  if  't  is  September." 

Mariana  heard  them  rising,  Sophronia  contrib 
uting  soft  thuds  of  a  good-sized  middle-aged 
body  and  Lizzie  with  a  light  scramble  suited  to 
her  weight. 

"  Mercy !  "  said  Sophronia,  "ain't  you  stiff  ?  " 

Then  they  went  on  together,  and  Mariana 
heard  in  the  near  distance  the  familiar  patter  deal 
ing  with  Sophronia's  proficiency  in  mock  mince- 
pies.  They  were  safely  away,  but  she  did  not 
move.  The  cool  September  breeze  rustled  the 
blackberry-vines  on  her  side  of  the  wall,  but  it 
did  not  chill  her.  She  was  hot  with  some  emo 
tion  she  could  not  name,  —  anger,  perhaps, 
though  it  hardly  seemed  like  that,  resentment 


THE   CHALLENGE  127 

that  her  friends  could  talk  her  over;  and  some 
hurt  in  the  very  centre  of  feeling  because  the 
shyness  of  her  soul  had  been  invaded.  It  seemed 
so  simple  to  carry  Jake  Preble  a  pie  of  her  own 
baking,  as  natural  as  for  him  to  cut  her  wood 
and  shovel  paths  for  her  in  the  worst  winter 
weather.  When  it  was  a  beautiful  clearing-off 
day  after  a  storm,  she  loved  to  sweep  her  paths 
herself,  and  Jake  knew  it;  but  he  was  always 
near  to  rescue  her  when  the  drifts  piled  too 
high.  But  then  Cap'n  Hanscom  came,  too,  and 
he  was  a  widower,  and  once  Sophronia's  own 
husband  had  taken  a  hand  at  the  snowy  citadel. 
Angry  maidenhood  in  her  kept  hurling  questions 
into  the  deepening  dusk.  Mariana  was  learning 
that  in  a  world  of  giving  in  marriage,  no  woman 
and  no  man  who  have  not  accorded  hostages  to 
fortune  can  live  unchallenged. 

When  her  ireful  mood  had  worn  itself  away, 
she  got  up  with  the  stiffness  of  the  mind's  de 
pression  intensifying  the  body's  chill,  and  made 
her  way  swiftly  toward  home.  She  walked  fast, 
because  it  seemed  to  her  she  could  not  possibly 
bear  to  meet  a  neighbor.  Even  through  the 
dusk  her  tell-tale  basket  would  be  visible,  the 
dishes  in  it  clinking  to  the  tune  that  Mariana 
was  no  sort  of  a  woman  to  marry. 

When  she  reached  home,  she  fled  up  the 
path  to  the  door,  feeling  at  every  step  the 


128          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

friendliness  of  the  way.  The  late  fall  flowers 
nodded  kindly  to  her  through  the  dark,  and 
underfoot  were  the  stones  and  hollows  of  the 
pathway  familiar  to  her  from  a  life's  acquaint 
anceship. 

"  My  sakes,"  breathed  Mariana. 

A  man  was  sitting  on  her  steps,  and  because 
Jake  was  so  vividly  present  to  her  mind,  she 
almost  spoke  his  name.  But  it  was  only  Cap'n 
Hanscom,  rising  as  she  neared  him,  and  open 
ing  the  door  gallantly. 

"  I  says  to  myself,  she  '11  be  along  in  a  minute 
or  two,"  he  told  her. 

The  cap'n  had  a  soft  voice  touched  here  and 
there  with  whimsical  tones.  When  he  was  ab 
sent,  Mariana  often  thought  how  much  she  liked 
his  voice;  but  whenever  she  saw  him  she  con 
sumed  her  friendly  interest  in  wishing  he  would 
n't  wear  a  beard.  She  was  a  fastidious  woman, 
and  a  beard  seemed  to  her  untidy. 

"  You  stay  here  in  the  settin'-room,"  said  she. 
"  I  '11  get  the  lamp." 

She  slipped  through  the  kitchen  into  the  pan 
try  and  put  her  basket  softly  down,  lest  he 
should  hear  that  shameful  clink.  Even  Cap'n 
Hanscom  could  not  be  allowed,  she  thought,  to 
know  she  had  been  carrying  pies  to  a  man  who 
would  not  marry  her  because  she  was  not  the 
kind  of  woman  to  marry.  "When  she  came  back, 


THE  CHALLENGE  129 

bearing  the  shining  lamp,  the  cap'n  looked  at 
her  in  a  frank  approval. 

Mariana  was  a  round,  pleasant  body  with 
pink  cheeks,  kindly  eyes,  and,  bearing  witness 
to  her  character,  a  determined  mouth;  but  now 
she  seemed  to  be  enveloped  by  some  transform 
ing  aura.  Her  auburn  hair,  touched  with  gray, 
had  blown  about  her  head  in  an  unusual  aban 
don,  her  cheeks  were  flaming,  and  her  eyes 
had  pin-points  of  light.  She  set  the  lamp  down 
on  the  table  with  a  steady  hand  and  drew  the 
shades.  Then  she  became  aware  that  the  cap'n 
was  looking  at  her.  He  had  a  fatherly  gaze  for 
everybody,  the  index  of  his  extreme  kindliness, 
but  it  had  apparently  been  startled  into  some 
keener  interest. 

"Well,"  said  Mariana,  and  found  that  she 
was  speaking  irritably.  "  What 's  the  matter  ? 
You  look  as  if  you  never  see  anybody  before." 

She  and  the  cap'n  had  been  schoolfellows, 
though  he  was  older,  and  often  she  treated  him 
with  scanty  ceremony;  now,  after  she  had 
tossed  him  that  aged  formula  of  banter,  she 
laughed  to  soften  it.  But  she  was  still  unac 
countably  angry. 

"  Well,"  said  the  cap'n  slowly,  "  I  dunno  's 
I  ever  did  see  just  such  a  kind  of  a  body  be 
fore." 

The  words  seemed  to  be  echoing  from  the 


130          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

stolen  conversation  too  warmly  alive  in  her 
memory.  He,  too,  she  thought,  was  probably 
considering  her  a  nice  proper-looking  woman, 
but  one  no  man  would  think  of  marrying. 

"  Take  a  chair,"  she  said,  and  the  cap'n  went 
over  to  the  hearth  where  a  careful  fire  was  laid. 

"  Goin'  to  touch  it  off  ?  "  he  inquired. 

Mariana,  with  a  jealous  eye,  noted  that  he 
was  looking  at  the  fire,  not  at  her.  She  wondered 
if  Lizzie  Ann  West  would  say  a  man  had  to  be 
warmed  as  well  as  fed. 

"  Touch  it  off,"  she  said,  with  a  dispropor- 
tioned  recklessness.  "  There  's  the  matches  on 
the  mantel- tree." 

The  cap'n  did  it,  kneeling  to  adjust  the  sticks 
more  nicely;  and  when  one  fell  forward  with 
the  burning  of  the  kindling,  lifted  it  and  laid  it 
back  solicitously.  Then  with  a  turkey-wing  he 
swept  up  the  hearth,  its  specklessness  invaded 
by  a  rolling  bit  of  coal,  put  the  wing  in  place, 
and  stood  looking  down  at  what  seemed  to  be 
his  own  handiwork. 

"  There !  "  said  he. 

He  took  the  big  armchair  by  the  hearth,  and 
Mariana  drew  her  little  rocker  to  the  other  cor 
ner.  She  seated  herself  in  it,  her  hands  rather 
tensely  folded,  and  the  cap'n  regarded  her 
mildly. 

"  Ain't  you  goin'  to  sew  ?  "  he  inquired. 


THE  CHALLENGE  131 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Mariana,  "  I  dunno  's  I  be. 
I  dunno  's  I  feel  like  sewin'  all  the  time." 

"  Well,  I  dunno  's  there  's  any  law  to  make 
a  woman  set  an'  sew,"  the  cap'n  ruminated. 
"  Sewin'  or  knittin',  either.  Only,  I  've  got  so 
used  to  seein'  you  with  a  piece  o'  work  in  your 
hands,  did  n't  look  hardly  nat'ral  not  to."  He  re 
garded  her  again  with  his  kindly  stare.  "  Mari 
ana,"  said  he,  "  you  look  like  a  different  creatur'. 
What  is  't  's  got  hold  of  you  ?  " 

"Nothin',  I  guess,"  said  Mariana.  "Maybe 
I  'm  mad." 

"  Mad  ?  What  ye  mad  about  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dunno.  I  guess  I  'm  just  mad  in  gen 
eral.  Nothin'  particular,  as  I  see." 

"  Well,  if  anybody 's  goin'  to  be  mad  it  ought 
to  be  me,"  said  the  cap'n,  lifting  his  brows  with 
that  droll  look  he  wore  when  he  intended  to  in 
dicate  that  he  was  fooling.  "  I  guess  I  've  got  to 
wash  my  own  dishes  an'  bake  my  own  johnny- 
cake  for  a  spell.  Mandy  's  goin'  to  leave." 

"  Mandy  goin'  to  leave !  Well,  you  will  be 
put  to  't.  What 's  she  leavin'  for  ?  " 

"  Goin'  to  be  married." 

"  For  mercy  sakes !  Who  's  Mandy  Hill  goin' 
to  marry?" 

"  Goin'  to  marry  the  peddler." 

"  The  one  from  the  Pines  ?  " 

Cap'n  Hanscom  nodded. 


132          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  He  's  been  round  consid'able  this  fall,  but  I 
never  so  much  as  thought  he  'd  got  anything  but 
carpet-rags  in  his  head.  Well,  seems  he  had. 
Now  't  I  know  it,  I  realize  Mandy  's  been  stockin' 
up  with  tin  for  quite  a  spell.  Seems  to  me  I 
never  see  a  woman  that  needed  so  much  tin 
ware,  nor  took  so  long  to  pick  it  out.  I  never 
got  it  through  my  noddle  she  an'  the  peddler 
was  makin'  on  't  up  between  'em." 

"  Well,  suz,"  said  Mariana.  "  I  never  so  much 
as  thought  Mandy  Hill  'd  ever  marry." 

"  I  never  did,  either,"  said  the  cap'n.  "  But 
come  to  that,  it  'd  be  queer  'f  she  did  n't  sooner 
or  later.  Mandy  Hill 's  just  the  sort  of  a  woman 
nine  men  out  o'  ten  'd  be  possessed  to  marry. 
Wonder  to  me  she  ain't  done  it  afore." 

Mariana  shot  a  glance  at  him.  There  was  fire 
in  it,  kindled  of  what  fuel  she  knew  not ;  but 
the  flame  of  it  seemed  to  scorch  her.  The  cap'n 
was  staring  at  the  andirons  and  did  not  see  it. 

"  I  'd  give  a  good  deal,"  he  said  musingly, 
"  if  I  thought  I  could  ever  come  acrost  such  a 
housekeeper  as  you  be,  Mariana.  But  there ! 
that 's  snarin'  a  white  blackbird." 

"  Cap'n,"  said  Mariana. 

Her  tone  seemed  to  leap  at  him,  and  he  had 
to  look  at  her. 

"  Why,  Mariana ! "  he  returned.  Her  face 
amazed  him.  It  was  full  of  light,  but  a  light  that 


THE   CHALLENGE  133 

glittered.  "  By  George,"  said  he,  "  you  looked 
that  minute  for  all  the  world  jest  as  your  brother 
Elmer  did  when  Si  Thomson  struck  him  in  town 
meetin'.  Si  was  drunk  an'  Elmer  never  laid  up  a 
thing  after  the  blow  was  over  an'  done ;  but  that 
first  minute  he  looked  as  if  he  was  goin'  to  jump. 
What  is  it,  Mariana  ?  " 

"  Cap'n,"  said  Mariana.  She  was  used  to  calling 
him  by  his  first  name  in  their  school-day  fashion, 
but  her  new  knowledge  of  life  seemed  for  the 
moment  to  have  made  all  the  world  alien  to  her. 
"  Cap'n,  if  anybody  said  you  couldn't  do  a  thing, 
would  n't  you  say  to  yourself  you  'd  be  —  would  n't 
you  say  you  'd  do  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  dunno,"  said  the  cap'n,  wondering. 
"  Mebbe  I  would  if  't  was  some  thin'  I  thought 
best  to  do." 

"No,  no.  If  'twas  somethin'  —  well,  s'pose 
somebody  said  you  was  a  Chinyman,  would  n't 
you  prove  you  wa'n't  ?  " 

"  Why,"  said  the  cap'n  mildly, "  anybody  'd  see 
I  wa'n't,  minute  they  looked  into  my  face.  No 
body  'd  say  anybody  was  a  Chinyman  if  they 
wa'n't." 

Mariana  was  able  to  laugh  a  little  here,  though 
a  tear  did  run  over  her  cheek  in  a  hateful,  be 
traying  way.  She  wiped  it  off,  but  the  cap'n  saw 
it. 

"  See  here,  Mariana,"  said  he  stoutly,  "  who 's 


134          COUNTKY  NEIGHBORS 

been  rilin'  you  up  ?  Somebody  has.  You  tell 
me,  an'  I'll  kick  'em  from  here  to  the  state  o' 
Maine." 

"  Oh,  it 's  nothin',"  said  Mariana.  "  Here,  you 
lay  on  another  stick.  I  was  only  thinkin'  when 
you  spoke  of  Mandy,  what  a  fool  she  was  to  tie 
herself  up  to  the  best  man  in  the  world  if  she 
could  get  good  wages,  nice  easy  place  same  as 
yours  is.  Well,  there,  Eben !  I  do  get  kind  o' 
blue  when  the  winter  comes  on  and  I  sit  here  by 
the  fire  watchin'  my  hair  turn  gray.  If  anybody 
was  to  offer  me  a  job,  I  'd  take  it." 

"  You  would  ?  "  said  Cap'n  Han  scorn. 

She  saw  a  thought  run  into  his  eyes,  and  hated 
it.  She  liked  Eben  Hanscom,  but  all  the  decorous 
reserves  were  at  once  awake  in  her,  bidding  him 
remember  that  she  was  not  going  to  scale  the 
trim,  tight  fence  of  maidenly  tradition.  He  began 
rather  breathlessly,  and  she  cut  him  short. 

"  I  'd  come  and  be  your  housekeeper,"  said 
Mariana,  hurriedly  in  her  turn,  "  for  three  dollars 
a  week,  same  as  you  give  Mandy,  and  be  glad 
and  thankful.  Only  I'd  want  somebody  else  in 
the  family.  I  dunno  why,  but  seems  if  folks  would 
laugh  if  you  and  me  settled  down  there  together 
like  two  old  folks  —  " 

"  I  dunno  why  they  'd  laugh,"  said  the  cap'n 
stoutly.  His  eyes  were  glowing  with  the  surprise 
of  it  and  the  happy  anticipation  of  Mariana's  tidy 


THE   CHALLENGE  135 

ways.  "  Nobody  laughed  at  me  an'  Mandy ;  least 
ways  if  they  did,  I  never  got  hold  on  't." 

"  Well,  you  see,  Mandy's  day  begun  pretty 
soon  after  your  wife  was  taken,  and  folks  were 
kinder  softened  down.  Anyways,  I  couldn't  do 
it.  'T  ain't  that  I  'm  young  and  't  ain't  that  I  'm  a 
fool,  but  I  'd  just  like  to  have  one  more  in  the 
family." 

"  Aunt  Elkins  might  think  she  could  make  a 
home  with  us,"  said  the  cap'n,  pondering.  "  No, 
she  would  n't,  either,  come  to  think.  Her  son 's 
sent  her  her  fare  to  go  out  to  them  this  winter. 
Ain't  you  got  some  friend,  Mariana  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mariana.  She  was  watching  him 
with  a  steady  gaze,  as  if  she  had  planted  a  magic 
seed  and  looked  for  its  uprising.  "  If  there  was 
only  somebody  else  that 's  left  alone  as  you  and 
I  be,"  she  offered  speciously. 

The  cap'n  felt  a  quick  delight  over  his  own 
cleverness. 

«  Why,"  said  he,  "  there  's  Jake  Preble." 

"  He  never  'd  do  it,"  said  Mariana.  She  shook 
her  head  conclusively.  "  Never  'n  the  world." 

"  I  bet  ye  forty  dollars,"  said  the  cap'n.  "  He 
could  go  over  'n'  take  care  of  his  stock  an'  do  his 
choppin',  an'  come  back  to  a  warm  house.  I  'm 
goin'  to  ask  him.  I  'm  goin'  this  minute.  You  set 
up,  an'  I  '11  be  back  an'  tell  ye." 

"  You  take  it  from  me,"  Mariana  was  calling 


136          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

after  him.  "  He  won't  do  it  and  it's  noways  right 
he  should.  You  tell  him  so  from  me." 

"  I  bet  ye  forty  dollars,"  cried  the  cap'n. 

The  door  clanged  behind  him  and  he  was  gone. 
Mariana  had  never  heard  him  in  such  demented 
haste  since  the  days  when  one  squad  of  the  boys 
besieged  another  in  the  schoolhouse,  and  Eben 
Hanscom  was  deputed  to  run  for  reinforcements 
of  those  that  went  home  at  noon.  But  she  settled 
down  there  by  the  fire  and  held  herself  quiet 
until  he  should  come.  She  seemed  to  have  shut 
a  gate  behind  her;  but  whether  she  had  opened 
another  to  lead  into  the  unknown  country  where 
women  are  like  their  sisters,  triumphant  over 
things,  she  could  not  tell.  At  the  moment  she 
found  herself  in  a  little  inclosure  where  every 
body  could  see  her  and  laugh  at  her,  and  she 
could  not  answer  back. 

Before  the  forestick  had  burned  in  two,  she 
heard  him  coming,  but  he  was  not  alone.  She 
knew  that  other  step,  marking  out  a  longer 
stride,  and  the  steady  inarticulate  responses 
when  the  cap'n  talked.  The  cap'n  opened  the 
door  and  they  walked  in.  Jake  Preble  was 
ahead,  a  tall,  powerful  creature  in  his  working- 
clothes,  his  thin  face  with  the  bright  brown  eyes 
interrogating  her,  his  mouth,  in  spite  of  him, 
moving  nervously  under  the  mustache. 

"  What 's   all  this  ? "   said   he   roughly,   ap- 


THE  CHALLENGE  137 

preaching  her  as  if,  Mariana  thought,  he  owned 
her. 

That  air  of  his  had  pleased  her  once:  it 
gave  her  a  curious  little  thrill  of  acquiescent 
loyalty ;  but  now  it  simply  hurt,  and  the  instinct 
of  resentment  rose  in  her.  What  right  had  he 
to  own  her,  she  asked  herself,  when  it  only  made 
other  women  scornful  of  her  ?  She  lifted  her 
head  and  faced  him.  What  he  saw  in  her  eyes 
he  could  not  perhaps  have  told,  but  it  suddenly 
quieted  him  to  a  surprised  humility. 

"  You  goin'  over  to  keep  house  for  him  ?  "  he 
asked,  with  a  motion  of  his  head  toward  the 
cap'n,  who  seemed  to  be  petitioning  the  god  of 
domesticity  lest  his  new  hopes  be  confounded. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mariana,  "  but  I  ain't  goin'  unless 
he  can  get  one  or  two  more.  I  'm  tired  to  death 
of  settin'  down  to  the  table  alone.  One  more 
would  n't  be  no  better.  Three  's  the  kind  of  a 
crowd  I  like.  Two  's  no  company.  Don't  you 
say  so,  cap'n?" 

"  I  prefer  to  choose  my  company,  that 's  all  I 
say,"  the  cap'n  answered  gallantly. 

Jake  looked  from  one  to  the  other  and  then 
back  again.  What  he  saw  scarcely  pleased  him, 
but  it  had  to  be  accepted. 

"  All  right,"  said  he.  "  If  you  want  a  boarder, 
no  reason  why  you  should  n't  have  one.  I  '11 
shut  up  my  place  to-morrer." 


138         COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

The  red  surged  up  into  Mariana's  cheeks. 
She  had  not  known  it  was  easy  to  cause  such 
gates  to  open. 

"When 's  Mandy  goin'  ?"  she  asked  indiffer 
ently. 

"Week  from  Wednesday,"  said  the  cap'n. 
He  was  suffused  with  joy,  and  Mariana,  in  one 
of  those  queer  ways  she  had  of  thinking  of  in 
apposite  things,  remembered  him  as  she  saw  him 
once  when,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  he  sat  before 
a  plate  of  griddle-cakes  and  saw  the  syrup-pitcher 
coming. 

"  Thursday,  then,"  she  said.  "  I  '11  be  along 
bright  and  early." 

She  rose  and  set  her  chair  against  the  wall. 
That  seemed  as  if  they  were  to  go. 

"  You  'd  better  by  half  stay  where  you  be  in 
your  own  home,"  she  called  after  Jake,  shut 
ting  the  door  behind  him.  "You  won't  like 
settin'  at  other  folks'  tables.  You  've  set  too  long 
at  your  own." 

He  came  back,  and  left  the  cap'n  waiting  for 
him  in  the  path.  There  he  stood  before  her,  the 
gaunt,  big  shape  she  had  watched  and  brooded 
over  so  many  years.  Something  seemed  to  be 
moving  in  his  brain,  and  he  gave  it  difficult  ex 
pression. 

"  Depends  on  who  else  's  settin'  at  the  ta 
ble,"  he  remarked,  and  vanished  into  the  night. 


THE  CHALLENGE  139 

Mariana,  moved  and  wondering,  wanted  to 
call  after  him  and  ask  him  what  he  meant ;  but 
she  reflected  that  the  women  who  inspired  such 
speeches  probably  refrained  from  insisting  too 
crudely  on  their  value.  Then  she  flew  to  the 
bedroom  and  began  to  sort  her  things  for  packing. 

In  two  weeks  she  was  settled  at  the  cap'n's, 
and  Jake  Preble  had  come  to  board,  doggedly, 
even  sulkily,  at  first,  and  then  suddenly  armed 
with  that  quiet  acceptance  he  had  ready  for  all 
the  changes  in  his  life.  But  Mariana  smoothed 
his  path  to  a  pleasant  familiarity  with  the  big 
house  and  its  ways,  and  he  began  to  look  about 
the  room,  from  his  place  at  the  table  with  his 
book  or  paper,  wonderingly  and  even  patheti 
cally,  as  she  thought,  recalling  the  time  before 
his  sister  died  when  his  own  house  had  been 
full  of  the  warm  intimacies  of  an  ordered  life. 
The  captain  reveled  in  the  comfort  of  his  state. 
He  brought  in  wood  until  Mariana  had  to  bid 
him  cease.  He  built  fires  and  drew  water,  and  his 
ruddy  face  shone  with  contentment.  She  made 
his  favorite  dishes  and  seemed  not  to  notice 
when  Jake,  too,  in  his  shy  way,  awoke  to  praise 
them.  She  even  read  aloud  to  the  cap'n  on  a 
Sunday  night  from  the  life  of  women  who,  the 
title  declared,  debatably,  had  "Made  India 
what  It  is."  On  such  nights  of  intellectual  stress 
Jake  betook  himself  to  the  kitchen  and  ostenta- 


140         COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

tiously  pored  over  the  "  Scout  in  Early  New 
England."  The  cap'n,  who  was  hospitality  itself, 
trudged  out  there  one  night,  in  the  midst  of  a 
panegyric  on  Mrs.  Judson,  and  besought  him 
to  come  in. 

".  If  you  don't  like  that  kind  o'  readin',  Jake, 
we  '11  try  suthin'  else,"  he  conceded  generously. 
"  I  jest  as  soon  play  fox  an'  geese  Sunday  nights 
if  anybody  wants  to.  I  ain't  one  to  tie  up  the 
cat's  tail  Sunday  mornin'  so 's  she  won't  play." 

"  I  '11  be  in  bymeby,"  said  Jake,  f rowningly 
intent  upon  his  page.  "  You  go  on  with  your 
readin',  cap'n.  I  '11  be  in." 

But,  instead,  he  walked  out  and  down  the 
road  to  his  own  lonely  house,  and  Mariana, 
though  her  brain  followed  him  every  step  of  the 
way,  went  on  reading  in  the  clearest  voice, 
minding  her  stops  as  she  had  been  taught  when 
she  was  accounted  the  best  reader  in  the  class. 
But  in  those  days  of  reading-classes  her  heart 
had  not  ached.  It  ached  all  the  time  now.  She 
had  shut  the  gate  behind  her,  and  the  one  she 
opened  led  into  an  unfamiliar  country.  Mariana 
had  been  born  to  live  ingenuously,  simply,  like 
the  child  she  was.  Woman's  wiles  were  not  for 
her,  and  the  fruit  they  brought  her  had  a  bitter 
tang.  But  whether  her  campaign  was  a  righteous 
one  or  not,  it  was  brilliantly  successful.  She 
could  hardly  think  that  any  women,  looking  on, 


THE  CHALLENGE  141 

were  laughing  at  her,  even  in  a  kindly  way. 
She  had  taken  her  own  stand  and  the  world  had 
patently  respected  it.  Immediately  on  her  mov 
ing  to  the  cap'n's  she  had  gone  out  in  her  best 
cashmere  and  made  a  series  of  calls,  and  far  and 
wide  she  had  gayly  announced  herself  as  keep 
ing  house  because  she  wanted  the  money ;  in  the 
spring,  she  told  the  neighborhood,  she  meant  to 
take  what  she  had  earned  and  make  a  journey 
to  Canada  to  see  cousin  Liddy,  who  had  married 
into  a  nice  family  there,  and  over  and  over  again 
had  written  for  her  to  come. 

"  I  guess  Eben  Hanscom  never  '11  let  you  step 
your  foot  out  of  his  house  now  he  's  tolled  you 
into  it,"  Lizzie  Ann  West  remarked  incisively 
one  afternoon,  when  Mariana,  after  a  pleasant 
call  on  her,  stood  in  the  doorway,  saying  the 
last  words  the  visit  had  not  left  room  for.  "  He 
ain't  goin'  to  bite  into  such  pie-crust  as  yours, 
day  in,  day  out,  and  go  back  to  baker's  trade." 

"  I  don't  make  no  better  pie-crust  'n  you  do," 
said  Mariana  innocently. 

"  Mebbe  you  don't,  but  you  're  on  the  spot, 
and  there's  where  you've  got  the  whip-hand. 
Eben  Hanscom  ain't  goin'  to  let  you  go.  He  's 
no  such  fool." 

"Well,"  flashed  Mariana,  "I'd  like  to  see 
anybody  keep  me  when  I  've  got  ready  to  go." 
She  was  on  the  doorstep  now,  and  the  spring 


142          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOES 

wind  was  bringing  her  faint,  elusive  odors.  She 
felt  like  putting  her  head  up  in  the  air  like  a 
lost  four-footed  creature  and  snuffing  for  her 
home. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  you  '11  be  glad  enough  to  stay," 
said  Lizzie  Ann,  with  a  shrewdness  Mariana 
hated.  "  The  cap'n  's  takin'  to  clippin'  his  beard. 
He 's  a  nice-lookin'  man,  younger  by  ten  years 
than  he  was  when  she  's  alive,  and  neat 's  a  pin." 

Mariana  chose  her  way  back  along  the  muddy 
road,  choking  a  temptation  to  turn  the  corner 
to  her  own  little  house,  build  a  fire  there,  and 
let  single  men  fight  the  domestic  battle  for 
themselves.  But  that  night  when  the  spring 
wind  was  still  moving  and  she  stood  on  Cap'n 
Hanscom's  doorstone  and  looked  at  the  dark 
lilac  buds  at  her  hand,  the  tears  came,  and  the 
cap'n,  bearing  in  his  last  armful  of  wood  for  the 
night,  saw  them  and  was  undone.  He  went  in 
speechlessly  and  piled  the  wood  with  absent 
care.  He  stood  a  moment  in  thought,  and  then 
he  called  her. 

"  Mariana,  you  come  here." 

She  went  obediently. 

"  You  ain't  homesick,  be  you  ?  "  the  cap'n 
inquired. 

She  nodded,  like  a  child. 

"  I  guess  so,"  she  responded.  "  Leastways,  if 
'  t  ain't  that  I  don't  know  what  't  is." 


THE  CHALLENGE  143 

The  cap'n  was  looking  at  her  pleadingly,  all 
warm  benevolence  and  anxious  care. 

"  I  know  how  'tis,"  he  burst  forth.  "  You've 
give  up  your  home  to  come  here,  an'  you  feel 
as  if  you  had  n't  anything  of  your  own  left.  Ain't 
that  so,  Mariana  ?  " 

"  I  guess  so,"  Mariana  returned  at  random. 
"Mebbe  I'll  go  down  and  open  my  winders 
to-morrow.  I  want  to  look  over  some  o'  my 
things." 

The  cap'n  seemed  to  be  breathing  with  diffi 
culty.  Mariana  had  heard  him  speak  in  meeting, 
and  thus  stertorously  was  he  accustomed  to  an 
nounce  his  faith. 

"  Mariana,"  said  he,  "  it 's  all  yours,  everything 
I  got.  It 's  your  home.  You  stay  here  an'  enjoy 
it." 

"  Oh,  no,  it  ain't,"  cried  Mariana,  in  a  fright. 
"  I  've  got  my  own  place  same  's  you  have.  I  'm 
contented  enough,  Eben.  I  just  got  kinder 
thinkin' ;  I  often  do,  come  spring  o'  the  year." 

"  "Well,  I  ain't  contented,  if  you  be,"  said  the 
cap'n  valiantly.  "I  never  shall  be  till  you  an' 
me  a,re  man  an'  wife." 

"  O  my  soul !  "  Mariana  cried  out.  "  O  my 
soul!" 

"What 's  the  matter  ?  "  said  Jake  Preble.  He 
had  just  come  over  from  his  own  house  with  a 
spray  of  lilac  that  was  really  out,  whereas  the 


144         COUNTEY  NEIGHBORS 

cap'n's  had  only  budded.  Jake  had  felt  a  strange 
thrill  of  triumph  at  the  haste  his  bush  had  made. 
He  thought  Mariana  ought  to  see  it. 

"  There's  nothin'  the  matter,"  she  told  him  in 
a  high,  excited  voice,  "  except  I  've  got  to  go 
home.  I  Ve  told  Cap'n  Hanscom  so,  and  I  '11  tell 
you.  I  ain't  goin'  to  eat  another  meal  in  this  house. 
There 's  plenty  cooked,"  she  continued,  turning 
to  the  cap'n  in  a  wistful  haste,  "  and  I  '11  stop 
on  the  way  down  the  road  and  tell  Lizzie  Ann 
West  you  want  she  should  come  and  see  you 
through.  Don't  you  stop  me,  either  of  you.  I  'm 
goin'  home." 

She  ran  up  the  stairs  to  her  room,  and  tossed 
her  belongings  into  her  trunk.  Over  the  first  layer 
she  cried,  but  then  it  suddenly  came  upon  her 
that  she  was  having  her  own  way  and  that  it  led 
into  her  dear  spring  garden,  and  she  laughed 
forthwith.  Downstairs  the  cap'n  stood  ponder 
ing,  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  and  Jake  regarded 
him  at  first  keenly  and  in  anger,  and  then  with 
a  slow  smile. 

"  Well,"  said  Jake  presently,  "  I  guess  I 
might 's  well  pack  up,  too." 

"  Don't  ye  do  it,  Jake,"  the  cap'n  besought 
him  hoarsely.  "  I  guess,  think  it  over,  she  '11  make 
up  her  mind  to  stay." 

"  Guess  not,"  said  Jake.  It  was  more  cheer 
fully  than  he  had  spoken  that  winter,  the  cap'n 


THE  CHALLENGE  145 

wonderingly  thought.  "I'll  heave  my  things 
together  an'  go  back  to  the  old  place." 

In  a  day  or  two  it  was  all  different.  They  had 
moved  the  pieces  as  if  it  were  some  sober  game, 
and  now  Mariana  was  in  her  own  little  house, 
warming  it  to  take  out  the  winter  chill,  and  treat 
ing  it  with  a  tender  haste,  as  if  she  had  somehow 
done  it  wrong,  and  Lizzie  Ann  had  gone  to  Cap'n 
Hanscom's.  Mariana  had  hesitated  on  the  door- 
stone,  at  her  leaving,  and  there  the  cap'n  bade 
her  good-by,  rather  piteously  and  with  finality, 
though  they  were  to  be  neighbors  still. 

"  Well,  Eben,"  she  hesitated.  There  was  some 
thing  she  had  meant  to  say.  In  spite  of  decency, 
in  spite  of  feminine  decorum,  she  had  intended 
to  give  him  a  little  shove  into  the  path  that  should 
lead  him,  still  innocently,  to  her  own  blazonment 
as  a  woman  who  could  have  her  little  triumphs 
like  the  rest.  "  If  you  should  ever  feel  to  tell 
Lizzie  Ann  I  was  a  good  housekeeper,"  she 
meant  to  say,  "  I  should  be  obliged  to  you."  He 
would  do  it,  she  knew,  and  from  that  prologue 
more  would  follow.  The  cap'n  would  go  on  to 
say  he  had  besought  her  to  marry  him,  never 
guessing,  under  Lizzie  Ann's  superior  system  of 
investigation,  that  he  had  disclosed  himself  at 
all.  But  as  she  mused  absently  on  his  face,  another 
spirit  took  possession  of  her,  the  one  that  had 
presided  over  her  humble  hearth  and  welcomed 


146          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOES 

the  two  men  there  in  the  neighborly  visits  that 
seemed  so  pleasant  in  remembrance.  What  did  it 
avail  that  this  or  that  woman  should  declare  she 
was  unsought  ?  She  was  ashamed  of  waging  that 
unworthy  war.  She  found  herself  speaking  with 
out  premeditation. 

"  You  know  what  Lizzie  Ann  West  says  about 
you?" 

"  She  ain't  said  she  won't  come  ?  "  He  was  dis 
mayed  and  frankly  terrified. 

"  She  says  you  're  dreadful  spruce-lookin'  and 
you  're  younger  'n  ever  you  was." 

The  cap'n  laughed. 

"  That  all?  "  he  inquired.  "  Well,  she  must  be 
cross-eyed." 

"  No,"  said  Mariana,  "she  ain't  cross-eyed; 
only  she  thinks  you  're  a  terrible  likely  man." 

Then  she  walked  away,  and  the  cap'n  watched 
her,  blinking  a  little  with  the  sun  in  his  eyes 
and  the  memory  of  her  Indian  pudding. 

Mariana  did  not  find  her  house  just  as  she 
had  left  it.  It  seemed  to  her  a  warmer,  lighter, 
cleaner  place  than  she  had  ever  thought  it,  and, 
in  spite  of  the  winter's  closing,  as  sweet  as 
spring.  She  went  about  opening  cupboard  doors 
and  looking  at  her  china  as  if  each  piece  were 
friendly  to  her,  from  long  association,  and  mov 
ing  the  mantel  ornaments  to  occupy  the  old 
places  more  exactly.  Certain  eccentricities  of 


THE   CHALLENGE  147 

the  place  had  been  faults;  now  they  were  beau 
ties  wherein  she  found  no  blemish.  The  worn 
hollows  in  the  kitchen  floor,  so  hard  to  wash  on 
a  Monday,  seemed  exactly  to  fit  her  feet.  And 
while  she  stood  with  her  elbows  on  the  window- 
sash,  looking  out  and  planning  her  garden,  Jake 
Preble  came.  Mariana  was  not  conscious  that 
she  had  expected  him,  but  his  coming  seemed 
the  one  note  needed  to  complete  recaptured 
harmony.  What  she  might  have  prepared  to 
say  to  him  if  she  had  paused  to  remember  Liz 
zie  Ann's  ideal  of  woman's  behavior,  she  did 
not  think.  She  turned  to  him,  her  face  running 
over  with  pure  delight,  and  put  the  comprehen 
sive  question  :  — 

" Ain't  this  elegant?" 

"  You  bet  it  is,"  said  Jake.  He  did  not  seem 
the  same  man,  neither  the  sombre  dullard  of  the 
winter,  nor  the  Jake  of  former  years  who  had 
fulfilled  the  routine  of  his  life  with  no  comment 
on  its  rigor  or  its  ease.  His  face  was  warmly 
flushed  and  his  eyes  shone  upon  her.  "  I  don't 
know  ?s  I  ever  see  a  nicer  place,"  said  he,  "  ex 
cept  it 's  mine.  Say,  Mariana,  what  you  goin? 
to  do?" 

"When?"  Mariana  inquired  innocently. 

"  Now.  Right  off,  to-morrer,  next  day." 

She  laughed. 

"  I  'm  goin'  to  start  my  garden  and  wash  my 


148          COUNTRY  1STEIGHBORS 

dishes  and  hang  out  clo'es,  and  then  I  'm  goin' 
to  begin  all  over  again  and  do  the  same  things ; 
bnt  it  '11  be  my  garden  and  my  dishes  and  my 
clo'es.  And  I  'm  goin'  to  be  as  happy  as  the 
day  is  long." 

"  Say,"  said  Jake,  "  you  don't  s'pose  you  could 
come  over  to  my  house  an'  do  it  ?  " 

"  Work  out  some  more  ?  Why,  I  ain't  but 
just  over  one  job.  You  expect  me  to  take  an 
other?" 

Mariana  was  not  in  the  least  embarrassed. 
Lizzie  Ann  was  right,  she  thought.  Men-folks 
studied  their  own  comfort,  and  Jake,  even,  hav 
ing  had  a  cosy  nest  all  winter,  had  learned  the 
way  of  making  one  of  his  own.  Suddenly  she 
trembled.  He  was  looking  at  her  in  a  way  she 
wondered  at,  not  as  if  he  were  Jake  at  all,  but 
another  like  him,  from  warm,  beseeching  eyes. 

"  You  should  n't  do  a  hand's  turn  if  you  did  n't 
want  to,"  he  was  assuring  her,  with  that  en 
treating  look.  "  We  'd  keep  a  girl,  an'  Mondays 
I  'd  stay  home  an'  turn  the  wringer.  Mariana, 
I  know  you  set  everything  by  your  house,  but 
you  could  fix  mine  over  any  way  you  liked. 
You  could  throw  out  a  bay-winder  if  you  wanted, 
or  build  a  cupelow." 

"  Why,"  said  Mariana,  so  softly  that  he  bent 
to  hear,  "  what 's  set  you  out  to  want  a  house 
keeper  ?  " 


THE   CHALLENGE  149 

"  It  ain't  a  housekeeper,"  said  Jake.  "  I  've 
had  enough  o'  housekeepin'  long  as  I  live,  see- 
in'  you  fetch  an'  carry  for  Eb  Hanscom.  Why, 
Mariana,  I  just  love  you.  I  want  a  wife." 

Mariana  walked  away  from  him  to  the  win 
dow  and  stood  looking  out  again,  only  that, 
instead  of  the  wet  garden  with  the  clumps  of 
larkspur  feathering  up,  she  seemed  to  see  long 
beds  of  flowers  in  bloom.  She  even  heard  the 
bees  humming  over  them  and  the  tumult  of 
nesting  birds.  And  all  the  time  Jake  Preble 
waited,  looking  at  her  back  and  wondering  if 
after  all  the  losses  of  his  life  he  was  to  forfeit 
Mariana,  who,  he  knew,  was  life  itself. 

"Well,"  said  he,  in  deep  despondency,  "I 
s'pose  it 's  no  use.  I  see  how  you  feel  about  it. 
Any  woman  would  feel  the  same." 

Mariana  turned  suddenly,  and,  seeing  she  was 
smiling,  he  took  a  hurried  step  to  meet  her. 

"  I  'most  forgot  you,"  she  said,  with  a  whim 
sical  lilt  in  her  voice.  "  I  was  thinkin'  how  ele 
gant  it  is  when  we  get  home  at  last." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jake  dejectedly.  "  I  s'pose  you  're 
considerin'  your  own  house  an'  your  own  gardin- 
spot  's  the  best  there  is  in  the  world." 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Mariana,  with  a  little  move 
ment  toward  him.  "  I  wa'n't  thinkin'  o'  my  house 
nor  my  gardin  particular.  I  guess  I  was  thinkin' 
o'  yours.  Leastways,  I  was  thinkin'  o'  you" 


PARTNERS 

"I  GUESS  I  shall  fetch  it,"  said  Newell  Bond. 

He  was  sitting  on  the  doorstep,  in  the  summer 
dusk,  with  Dorcas  Lee.  She  knew  just  how  his 
gaunt,  large-featured  face  looked,  with  its  hawk 
like  glance,  and  the  color,  as  he  spoke,  mounting 
to  his  forehead.  There  were  two  kinds  of  Bonds, 
the  red  and  the  black.  The  red  Bonds  had  the 
name  of  carrying  out  their  will  in  all  undertak 
ings,  and  Newell  was  one.  Dorcas  was  on  the 
step  above  him,  her  splendid  shoulders  disdain 
ing  the  support  of  the  casing,  and  her  head,  with 
its  heavy  braids,  poised  with  an  unconscious 
pride,  no  more  spirited  by  daylight  than  here  in 
the  dark  where  no  one  saw.  She  answered  in 
her  full,  rich  voice :  — 

"  Of  course  you  will,  if  you  want  to  bad 
enough." 

"  If  I  want  to  ?  "  repeated  Newell.  "  Ain't  I 
acted  as  if  ?t  was  the  one  thing  I  did  want  ?  " 

Over  and  over  they  had  dwelt  upon  the  great 
purpose  of  his  life,  sometimes  to  touch  it  here 
and  there  with  delicate  implication,  and  often  to 
sit  down,  by  an  unspoken  consent,  for  long,  se 
rious  talks.  To-night  Newell  spoke  from  a  rem- 


PARTNERS  151 

iniscent  mood.  There  were  times  when,  in  an  in 
genuous  egoism,  he  had  to  take  down  the  book 
of  his  romance  and  read  a  page.  But  only  to 
Dorcas.  She  was  his  one  confidant;  she  under 
stood. 

"  I  don't  know  ?s  Alida  ?s  to  blame,"  he  medi 
tated.  "  She  's  made  that  way." 

Immediately  Dorcas,  in  her  sympathetic  mind, 
was  regarding  a  picture  of  Alida  Roe  as  she  saw 
her  without  illusion  of  passion  or  prejudice  —  a 
delicate,  pale  girl  with  a  sweet  complexion,  and 
slender  hands  that  were  ever  trembling  upon  fine 
work  for  her  own  adornment.  She  had  known 
Alida  at  school  and  at  home,  in  dull  times  and 
bright,  and  she  had  a  vision,  when  her  name  was 
mentioned,  of  something  as  frail  as  cobwebs,  with 
all  their  beauty.  Whenever  Newell  Bond  had 
begun  to  sound  the  praises  of  his  chosen  maid, 
she  had  set  her  mind  seriously  to  considering 
what  he  could  see  in  Alida.  But  it  was  never  of 
any  use.  Alida  always  remained  to  her  impal 
pable  and  vain.  Now  she  answered  patiently, 
according  to  her  wont:  — 

"  Of  course  she 's  made  that  way." 

It  was  like  a  touch  to  keep  the  machinery  go 
ing,  and  he  responded:  — 

"  You  see,  I  had  n't  asked  her  to  set  the  day. 
It  was  kind  of  understood  between  us.  An'  then 
Clayton  Rand  come  along  an'  begun  to  shine  up 


152          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

to  her,  spendin'  money  like  water,  an'  her  mother 
was  bewitched  by  it.  So  she  orders  Alida  to  throw 
me  over  an'  take  up  with  t'  other  man.  I  don't 
know 's  Alida  's  to  blame." 

"  Do  you  s'pose  they  're  engaged  ? "  asked 
Dorcas,  for  the  hundredth  time. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  brooding.  Then 
he  answered,  as  he  always  did :  — 

"  That 's  more  'n  I  can  make  out.  But  if  they 
are,  I  '11  break  it.  Give  me  time  enough,  an'  I  '11 
do  it  when  they're  walkin'  into  the  meetin'- 
house,  if  I  don't  afore." 

Dorcas  felt  old  and  tired.  All  her  buoyant  life 
seemed  to  settle  to  a  level  where  she  must  foster 
the  youth  of  others  and  starve  her  own. 

"  Well,"  she  said  gently,  "  you  've  done  pretty 
well  this  year,  sellin'  house-lots  an'  all." 

"  I  've  done  well  this  year  an'  I  'm  goin'  to  keep 
on,"  said  Newell,  in  that  dogged  way  he  had. 
Often  it  heartened  her,  but  never  when  it  touched 
upon  his  weary  chase.  Then  it  seemed  to  her 
like  some  rushing  force  that  should  be  used  to 
turn  a  mill,  wandering  away  into  poor  meadows, 
to  be  dried  and  lost.  But  he  was  ending  as  he 
always  did:  "Clayton  Rand  won't  marry  so 
long  's  his  mother 's  alive,  no  matter  how  much 
money  he 's  got.  An'  while  Alida 's  waitin'  for 
him,  I  '11  lay  up  what  I  can,  an'  I  bet  you  I  get 
her  yet." 


PARTNERS  153 

"  You  goin'  to  pick  peas  in  the  mornin'  ? " 
asked  Dorcas. 

She  had  heard  the  clock  striking,  and  it  coun 
seled  her  to  remember  how  early  their  days 
began. 

Newell  came  out  of  his  dream.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  "  that  patch  down  the  river  road.  I  guess 
we  can  get  off  ten  bushels  or  more  by  the  after 
noon  train." 

"All  right,"  said  Dorcas.  "I  '11  be  there." 

"  You  must  n't  walk  down.  I  'm  goin' t'  other 
way  myself,  but  I  '11  hitch  up  Jim,  an'  you  can 
leave  him  in  the  old  barn  till  you  come  home." 

"No,"  said  Dorcas,  rising.  "I'll  walk.  I'd 
rather  by  half  than  have  the  care  of  him.  Maybe 
I  '11  catch  a  ride,  too." 

They  said  good-night,  and  Newell  was  walk 
ing  down  the  path  where  clove-pinks  were  at 
their  sweetest,  when  he  turned  to  speak  again. 
Dorcas,  forgetful  of  him,  had  stretched  her  arms 
upward  in  a  yawn  that  seemed  to  envelop  the 
whole  of  her.  As  she  stood  there  in  the  moon 
light,  her  tall  figure  loomed  like  that  of  a  priestess 
offering  worship.  She  might  have  been  chanting 
an  invocation  to  the  night.  The  man,  regarding 
her,  was  startled,  he  did  not  know  why.  In  that 
instant  she  seemed  to  him  something  mysterious 
and  grand,  something  belonging  to  the  night  it 
self,  and  he  went  away  with  his  question  unasked. 


154          COUNTKY  NEIGHBOKS 

Dorcas,  her  yawn  finished,  went  in  to  think  of 
him,  as  she  always  did,  in  the  few  luxurious 
moments  before  she  slept.  But  her  nights  were 
always  dreamless.  She  had  the  laborer's  tired 
muscles  and  acquiescent  nerves. 

It  was  two  years  now  since  she  and  Newell 
had  become,  in  a  sense,  partners.  An  affliction 
had  fallen  upon  each  of  them  at  about  the  same 
time,  and,  through  what  seemed  chance,  they  had 
stretched  out  a  hand  each  to  steady  the  other, 
and  gone  on  together.  It  was  then  that  Dorcas's 
mother  had  had  her  first  paralytic  stroke,  and 
Dorcas  had  given  up  the  district  school  to  be  at 
home.  But  she  was  poor,  and  when  it  became 
apparent  that  her  mother  might  live  in  helpless 
misery,  it  was  also  evident  that  Dorcas  must  have 
something  to  do.  At  that  time  Newell,  under 
the  first  cloud  of  disappointed  love,  had  launched 
into  market-gardening,  and  he  gave  Dorcas  lit 
tle  tasks,  here  and  there,  picking  fruit  and  vege 
tables,  even  weeding  and  hoeing,  because  that 
would  leave  her  within  call  of  home,  where  a 
little  girl  sat  daily  on  guard.  Newell  lived  alone, 
with  old  Kate  to  do  his  work,  and  soon  it  became 
an  established  custom  for  Dorcas  to  cook  savory 
dishes  for  him,  on  the  days  when  Kate's  aching 
joints  kept  her  smoking  and  grumbling  by 
the  fire.  In  a  thousand  ways  she  unconsciously 
slipped  into  his  life,  with  his  accounts,  his  house 


PARTNERS  155 

purchases,  and  the  work  of  his  fields  ;  and  the 
small  sums  he  paid  her  kept  bread  in  her  mo 
ther's  mouth. 

And  now  her  mother  had  died,  but  Dorcas 
still  kept  on.  She  had  no  school  yet,  she  told 
herself  excusingly  ;  but  a  self  she  would  not 
hear  knew  how  intently  she  was  fighting  New- 
ell's  own  particular  battle  with  him,  how  she 
watched  here  and  there  lest  a  penny  be  spilled 
and  his  road  be  made  the  longer  to  the  goal  he 
fixed.  She  was  quite  willing  to  consider  breaking 
up  Alida's  intimacy  with  the  other  man,  because, 
to  her  dispassionate  mind,  Alida  was  of  no  ac 
count  in  the  world  of  feeling.  She  might  have 
her  mild  preferences,  but  if  Newell  could  give 
her  muslin  dresses  and  plated  pins,  he  would 
suit  her  excellently.  And  Newell  wanted  her.  As 
for  Clayton  Rand,  he  would  be  none  the  poorer, 
lacking  her.  She  had  thought  it  all  out,  and  she 
was  sure  she  knew. 

The  next  morning,  dressed  in  brown,  the  color 
of  the  earth  she  worked  in,  Dorcas  stepped  out 
into  the  dewy  world  and  closed  her  door  behind 
her.  It  was  a  long  walk  to  the  field.  For  some 
unguessed  reason  she  had  been  heavy-hearted 
at  rising;  but  now  the  pure  look  of  the  early  day 
refreshed  her  and  she  went  on  cheerfully.  Since 
her  mother's  death  life  had  seemed  to  her  all  a 
maze  where  she  could  find  few  certainties.  She 


156          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

had  no  ties,  no  duties,  save  the  general  ones  to 
neighborhood  and  church,  and  her  loneliness  now 
and  then  rose  before  her  like  something  inexor 
able  and  vast,  and  would  be  looked  at.  Perhaps 
that  was  why  she  had  thrown  herself  whole- 
souled  into  Newell's  willful  quest,  though  at  mo 
ments  she  longed  to  strangle  it  with  passion 
fiercer  than  its  own;  and  why  she  wondered 
just  what  she  could  do  after  the  desire  of  his 
heart  had  flowered  and  Alida  was  his  wife. 

As  she  walked  along,  she  held  her  head  very 
high,  and  carried  her  hat  in  her  hand,  leaving 
the  sun  to  strike  upon  her  shining  braids  and 
light  them  to  a  gloss.  For  the  moment  she  was 
unreasonably  happy,  forgetful  of  the  past,  and 
aware  only  of  the  sunlight  on  green  fields.  Then 
suddenly  she  found  that  a  light  wagon  had  drawn 
up  and  Clayton  Rand  was  asking  her  to  ride. 
She  looked  at  him  one  quick  instant  before  she 
answered.  She  had  known  him  when  they  were 
both  children  and  he  came  to  spend  the  summer 
a  mile  away,  and  sometimes,  for  fun,  went  to  the 
district  school.  Since  then  they  had  kept  up  a 
recognized  acquaintance,  but  this  was  the  first 
time  in  years  that  they  had  spoken  together. 
He  was  a  heavy-faced  young  man,  with  rough- 
looking  clothes  of  a  correct  cut,  and  a  suggested 
taste  in  dogs  and  horses. 

"  Ride  ?  "  he  asked  again,  and  Dorcas  smiled 


PARTNERS  157 

at  him  out  of  many  thoughts.  She  could  not 
have  whispered  them  to  herself  perhaps  ;  but 
they  all  concerned  Newell  and  his  daily  lack. 
Clayton  saw  the  pretty  lifting  of  her  red  lip 
above  her  small  white  teeth,  and,  being  a  young 
man  ready  to  leap  at  desired  conclusions,  in 
stantly  thought  of  kissing. 

"  I  can't  be  mistaken,"  he  said  elaborately. 
"  This  is  Miss  Dorcas  Lee." 

Dorcas  put  her  foot  on  the  step  and  seated 
herself  beside  him.  Then,  surprised  at  his  suc 
cess,  because  she  had  looked  to  him  like  a 
proud  person,  though  in  a  working- gown,  he 
began  a  wandering  apology  for  having  failed  to 
help  her  in.  Meantime  he  touched  up  the  beau 
tiful  sorrel,  and  when  they  began  to  fly  along 
the  road,  and  the  sorrel's  golden  mane  was  toss 
ing,  Dorcas  had  a  brief  smiling  concurrence 
with  Alida.  To  speed  like  that  was  perhaps 
worth  the  company  of  Clayton  Rand.  He  was 
talking  to  her,  and  she  answered  him  demurely, 
with  a  dignity  not  reassuring  from  one  of  her 
large  type  and  regal  air.  But  presently  he 
began,  by  some  inner  cleverness  (for  he  had  a 
way  with  him),  to  tell  her  stories  about  horses, 
and  Dorcas  listened,  wide-eyed  with  pleasure. 
The  way  to  the  knoll  was  very  short,  and  there 
she  had  to  stop  in  the  midst  of  a  racing  story 
that  had  the  movement  of  the  race  itself,  and 


158          COUNTKY  NEIGHBOKS 

bid  him  leave  her.  This  time  he  remembered 
his  manners,  and  leaped  out  to  help  her  gal 
lantly. 

"  Miss  Dorcas,"  he  called  her  back  after  her 
pretty  thanks,  "  I  suppose  —  I  don't  half  dare 
to  ask  you  —  but  you  like  horses.  Just  let  me 
take  you  over  to  the  Country  Club  to-morrow, 
and  we  can  see  the  racing." 

For  the  space  of  a  second,  Dorcas  gazed  at 
the  toe  of  her  patched  working-boots.  She  was 
thinking,  in  a  confused  tangle,  of  Alida  and 
Newell,  and  wondering  if  she  had  any  clothes 
to  wear.  Then  she  lifted  her  head  quickly  in 
a  resolution  that  looked  like  triumph. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  with  a  shyness  very 
charming  in  one  of  her  large  type  ;  "  I  should 
be  happy  to." 

"  Thank  you"  said  Clayton,  jumping  into  the 
wagon.  "  I  '11  be  along  about  half -past  one." 

All  that  day  Dorcas  bent  over  the  pea-vines 
and  listened  to  her  thoughts.  There  were  other 
pickers,  but  she  had  no  words  for  them,  even 
when  they  sat  down  together  for  their  luncheon, 
nor  for  Newell  himself,  coming  at  night  to  take 
her  home. 

"  You  're  real  tired,  I  guess,"  he  said,  as  he 
left  her  at  the  gate. 

Dorcas  flashed  a  sudden  smile  at  him.  It  was 
all  mirth  and  mischief. 


PARTNERS  159 

"  No,"  she  said  soberly,  "  I  don't  believe  I  'm 
tired." 

"  I  'm  goin'  to  Fairfax  to  see  about  sellin'  the 
colt  to-morrow,"  said  Newell,  from  the  wagon. 

Dorcas  nodded. 

"  Maybe  I  '11  take  a  day  off  myself,"  she  said. 
"  I  '11  be  on  hand  next-day  mornin',  if  you  want 
anything  picked.  Good-night." 

That  evening  at  ten  Newell  was  driving  home 
from  the  village,  and  he  marked  her  light  in 
the  kitchen.  He  stopped,  vaguely  uneasy,  and 
walked  up  the  path  to  the  side  door,  and  as  he 
came  he  saw  the  shades  go  down. 

"  Dorcas ! "  he  called,  at  the  door,  "  it 's  me, 
Newell." 

Then  he  heard  her  hurrying  steps.  But  in 
stead  of  opening  the  door  to  him  she  pushed  the 
bolt  softly,  and  he  heard  her  voice  in  an  inex 
plicable  mixture  of  laughter  and  confusion. 

"  I  'm  real  sorry,  Newell,  but  I  can't  let  you 
in.  I  'm  awful  sorry." 

"All  right,"  he  said  bluffly,  turning  away, 
yet  conscious  of  a  tiny  hurt  of  pained  surprise. 
"Nothin'  wrong,  is  there  ?  " 

"  No,"  came  the  laughing  voice  again,  "  there 's 
nothin'  wrong." 

"  That 's  all  I  wanted  to  know,"  he  explained, 
as  he  went  down  the  path.  "  Seein'  the  light  so 
late—" 


160          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

And  again  the  voice  followed  him. 

"  Yes,  Newell,  I  'm  all  right." 

Dorcas,  an  hour  after,  at  her  table  ironing  the 
dotted  muslin  she  had  washed  and  dried  before 
the  fire,  laughed  out  again.  She  had  a  new  sense 
of  triumph,  like  a  bloom  upon  the  purpose  of 
her  life.  At  last  she  saw  before  her  a  path  quite 
distinct  from  the  dull  duties  of  every  day. 

When  Clayton  Rand  drove  up  with  his  pair  of 
sleek  horses  and  the  shining  rig  that  was  ad 
mired  by  all  the  town,  she  went  out  and  down 
the  path  very  shyly,  and  with  a  blushing  sedate- 
ness  becoming  to  her.  Clayton  saw  it,  and  his 
heart  leaped  with  the  vanity  of  knowing  she  was 
moved  because  of  him.  But  the  cause  was  other 
wise.  Dorcas  knew  her  hair  was  beautiful,  and 
that  her  skin,  in  spite  of  its  tan,  was  sweetly  pink; 
but  she  also  knew  that  the  fashion  of  her  sleeves 
was  two  years  old,  and  that  no  earthly  power 
could  bring  the  gloss  of  youth  to  her  worn  shoes 
again.  So  she  blushed  and  shrank  a  little,  like  a 
bride,  and  Clayton,  who  saw  only  that  her  skirts 
fluttered  airily  and  her  hat  was  trimmed  with 
something  soft  and  white,  straightway  forgot  all 
the  girls  he  had  ever  seen,  and  wondered  if  his 
mother  could  fail  to  approve  such  worth  as  this. 
And  then  again  he  began  to  talk  about  horses, 
and  Dorcas  began,  in  her  rapt  way,  to  listen,  and 
put  in  a  keen  word  here  and  there.  Alida,  she 


PABTNEES  161 

knew,  had  one  idea  of  horses:  that  they  were 
four-legged  creatures  likely  to  run  away,  or  to 
bite  your  fingers  if  you  gave  them  grass.  It 
was  easy  to  compete  with  her  there,  and  also 
because  Dorcas  really  did  love  animals  and  need 
not  pretend. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day  at  the  races.  There  were 
all  sorts  of  magnificent  turnouts,  and  ladies 
dressed  in  raiment  such  as  Dorcas  had  never 
even  imagined.  She  innocently  fancied  Clayton 
must  know  any  number  of  them,  and  grew  very 
humbly  grateful  to  him  for  troubling  himself 
about  her.  When  she  suggested  that  he  must 
have  many  friends  among  them,  he  laughed  with 
an  amused  candor,  and  told  her  they  were  gentry, 
a  cut  above.  Yet  Dorcas  continued  to  believe  he 
might  have  consorted  with  them,  if  he  chose,  and 
her  manner  to  him  had  a  softer  friendliness  be 
cause  he  was  so  kind.  And  when  she  could  for 
get  her  old-fashioned  gown,  she  was  quite  child 
ishly  content.  At  the  gate  that  night  he  thanked 
her  profusely  for  the  pleasure  of  her  company, 
and  added,  boldly :  — 

"Won't  you  go  to  ride  a  little  ways  to-morrow 
night?" 

A  sudden  shyness  made  her  retreat  a  step,  as 
if  in  definite  withdrawal.  It  was  like  a  flower's 
closing. 

"Maybe  not  to-morrow,"   she  hesitated.    It 


162          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

seemed  to  her  the  events  she  had  moved  were 
rushing,  of  themselves,  too  fast. 

" Next  day,  then,"  he  called.  "I'll  be  along 
about  seven.  Good-night." 

And  Dorcas  went  in  to  think  over  her  day  and 
dream  again,  not  so  much  of  that  as  of  the  desire 
she  was  fulfilling  for  another  man. 

At  that  time  Newell  was  very  busy  over  ques 
tions  of  real  estate.  He  had  bought,  two  years 
before,  the  whole  slope  of  Sunset  Hill,  overlook 
ing  three  townships  and  the  sea,  and  now  city 
residents  had  found  out  the  spot  and  were  trying 
to  secure  it.  That  prospect  of  immediate  riches 
drew  his  mind  away  from  his  gardening.  He  for 
got  the  patient  things  that  were  growing  silently 
to  earn  him  his  desire,  and  only  gave  orders  in 
the  morning  to  his  two  men  before  he  drove  away 
to  talk  about  land.  Even  Dorcas  he  forgot,  save 
as  a  man  remembers  his  accustomed  staff  lean 
ing  against  the  wall  till  he  shall  need  it.  But  he 
has  no  anxiety  about  it,  for  he  knows  it  will  be 
there. 

Dorcas  hardly  missed  him,  for  she,  too,  had 
new  ways  to  walk.  Clayton  Rand  came  often 
now.  He  seemed  to  be  fascinated,  perhaps  by  her 
beauty  and  the  simplicity  of  her  mien,  and  per 
haps  by  the  dignity  of  her  undefended  state.  She 
never  asked  him  into  her  house,  though  she 
would  drive  and  walk  with  him.  Her  strength, 


PARTNERS  163 

that  summer,  seemed  to  her  boundless.  She  could 
work  all  day  and  sit  up  half  the  night  sewing  old 
finery  or  washing  and  ironing  it,  and  then  she 
could  sleep  dreamlessly  for  two  or  three  hours, 
and  wake  to  work  again  and  drive  with  Clayton 
Rand  in  the  evening.  It  seemed  to  her  at  times 
as  if  that  life  would  go  on  breathlessly  forever, 
and  then  again  she  knew  it  would  not  go  on;  for 
she  had  planned  the  end  toward  which  it  was 
tending,  and  the  end  was  almost  there. 

One  afternoon,  as  she  came  home  from  her 
work  flushed  and  covered  with  dust,  yet  looking 
like  an  earth-queen  in  her  triumphant  health,  she 
had  to  pass  Alida's  house,  and  Alida's  mother 
was  waiting  for  her  by  the  gate.  As  Dorcas  came 
on  swiftly,  she  had  a  thought  that  Alida  was  not 
very  wise,  or  she  would  keep  her  lovers  away 
from  Mrs.  Roe.  The  mother  and  daughter  were 
too  much  alike.  The  older  woman  was  a  terrible 
prophecy.  The  fairness  of  youth  had  faded  in 
her  into  a  soft  ivory,  her  hair  was  a  yellow 
wisp  tightly  coiled,  and  her  mouth  drooped  in  a 
meagre  discontent.  She  regarded  Dorcas  f  rown- 
ingly  from  sharp  eyes,  and  Dorcas  stepped  more 
proudly.  She  had  fancied  this  onslaught  might 
awrait  her. 

"  Dorcas  Lee  !  "  called  the  woman  sharply. 
"  Dorcas  Lee !  " 

Then,  as  Dorcas  stopped,  in  a  calm  inquiry, 


164          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

the  woman  went  on  rushingly,  all  the  words  she 
had  not  meant  to  say  tumbling  forth  as  she  had 
thought  them. 

"  Dorcas  Lee,  what  are  you  carryin'  on  for,  the 
way  you  be,  with  Clayton  Eand?  There  ain't  a 
decent  girl  in  town  would  step  in  an'  ketch  any 
body  up  like  that.  You  '11  get  yourself  talked 
about,  if  you  ain't  now.  I  was  a  friend  to  your 
mother  an'  I  'm  a  friend  to  you,  an'  now  I  've 
gone  out  o'  my  way  to  give  you  warnin'." 

Dorcas  looked  past  her  up  the  garden  walk 
and  at  the  porch  where  Alida  sat  rocking  back 
and  forth,  her  hands  busy  as  ever  with  her  deli 
cate  work. 

"Alida!"  she  called  softly.  "'Lida,you  come 
here  a  minute.  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Alida  laid  down  her  work  with  care  and  placed 
her  thimble  in  the  basket.  Then  she  came  along 
the  garden  path,  swaying  and  floating  as  she 
always  walked,  her  pretty  head  moving  rhyth 
mically. 

"  'Lida,  you  come  a  step  or  two  with  me,"  said 
Dorcas  gently,  when  the  girl  was  at  the  gate. 
"I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Alida  opened  the  gate  and,  without  a  glance 
at  her  mother,  stepped  out  upon  the  dusty  path. 
People  said  Mrs.  Eoe  talked  so  much  that  every 
body  had  long  ago  done  listening  to  her,  and 
perhaps  she  had  done  expecting  it. 


PAETNEKS  165 

"  You'd  ought  to  have  suthin'  over  your  head," 
she  called  to  Alida.  "You'll  he's  black  as  an 
Injun." 

Dorcas  took  a  long  stride  into  the  roadside 
tangle  and  broke  off  a  branch  of  thick-leaved 
elder.  She  gave  it  to  Alida,  and  the  girl  gravely 
shaded  herself  with  it  from  the  defacing  sun. 
They  walked  along  together  in  silence  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  Dorcas  frankly  studied  Alida's  face. 
There  was  no  sign  of  grief  upon  it,  of  loneliness, 
of  discontent.  The  skin  was  like  a  rose,  a  fainter, 
pinker  rose  than  Dorcas  had  ever  seen.  The 
soft  lips  kept  their  lovely  curve. 

"  'Lida,"  she  breathed,  "  what  you  goin'  to  do 
to-night  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Alida,  in  her  even  voice. 
"  Sometimes  I  sew,  when  it  ain't  too  hot.  I  'm 
makin'  me  a  dotted  muslin." 

Dorcas  found  her  own  heart  beating  fast.  The 
excitement  of  it  all,  of  life  itself,  the  bliss,  the 
pain  and  loss,  came  keenly  on  her.  She  thought 
of  the  days  that  had  gone  to  buying  this  thing 
of  prettiness,  the  strained  muscles,  the  racing 
blood  and  thrilling  brain,  the  sweat  and  toil  of 
it,  and  something  choked  her  to  think  that  now 
the  pretty  thing  was  almost  won.  Newell  would 
have  it,  his  heart's  desire,  and  in  thirty  years 
perhaps  it  would  look  like  Alida's  mother  with 
that  shallow  mouth.  Yet  her  simple  faithfulness 


166          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOKS 

was  a  part  of  her  own  blood,  and  she  could  not 
deny  him  what  was  his. 

"  Alida,"  she  said,  in  an  eloquent  throb,  "do 
you  —  do  you  like  him  ?" 

"Who?"  asked  Alida  calmly,  turning  clear 
eyes  upon  her. 

Dorcas  laughed  shamefacedly. 

"  I  don't  know  hardly  what  I  'm  talkin'  about," 
she  said.  "  I  've  worked  pretty  hard  to-day. 
'Lida,  if  there  was  anybody  you  liked,  anybody 
you  want  to  talk  things  over  with  —  well  "  — 
she  paused  to  laugh  a  little  —  "  well,  if  I  were 
you,  I  should  just  put  on  my  blue  dress,  the  one 
with  the  pink  rosebuds,  an'  walk  along  this  road 
down  to  the  pine  grove  an'  back  again." 

"  The  idea ! "  said  Alida,  from  an  unbroken 
calm.  "  I  should  think  you  were  crazy." 

Dorcas  stopped  in  the  road,  decisively,  as  if 
the  moment  had  come  for  them  to  part. 

"  That 's  what  I  should  do,  'Lida,"  she  said, 
"  to-night,  every  night  along  about  eight,  till  it 
happens.  An'  I  should  wear  my  blue." 

Alida  turned  away,  as  if  she  felt  something 
unmaidenly  in  the  suggestion  and  might  well 
remove  herself;  yet  Dorcas  knew  she  would 
remember.  They  had  separated,  and  when 
they  were  a  dozen  paces  apart,  Dorcas  called 
again :  — 

-<  'Lida ! " 


PARTNERS  107 

Alida  turned.  Again  Dorcas  spoke  shyly,  from 
the  weight  of  her  great  task. 

"  'Lida,  Newell  Bond  's  sellin'  off  Sunset  Hill. 
He 's  doin'  well  for  himself." 

"  Is  he  ?  "  returned  Alida  primly.  "  I  had  n't 
heard  of  it."  Then  she  turned  and,  keeping  her 
feet  carefully  from  the  dust,  went  on  again. 

It  seemed  to  Dorcas  that  night  as  if  she  could 
not  wait  to  finish  the  bowl  of  bread  and  milk  that 
made  her  supper,  and  to  put  on  her  white  muslin 
and  seat  herself  by  the  window.  She  felt  as  if 
the  world  were  rushing  fast,  the  flowers  in  the 
garden  hurrying  to  open,  the  sun  to  get  into  the 
sky  and  make  it  redder  than  ever  it  had  been  be 
fore,  and  all  happy  people  to  be  happier.  Some 
thing  seemed  sweeping  after  her,  and  she  dared 
not  turn  and  look  it  in  the  face.  But  her  heart 
told  her  it  was  the  moment  that  would  come  after 
her  work  had  been  accomplished  and  Newell  had 
found  Alida.  As  if  she  had  known  it  would  be  so, 
she  saw  him  coming  down  the  road  and  called  to 
him.  He  was  walking  very  fast,  his  head  up,  and 
his  hands,  she  presently  saw,  clenched  as  they 


swung. 


"  Newell !  "  she  cried,  "  come  in." 
He  strode  up  the  path  and  she  rose  to  meet 
him.  She  remembered  now  that  she  had  many 
things  to  tell  him,  and  the  knowledge  of  them 
choked  her. 


168          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  Newell,"  she  began,  "  you  must  n't  go  —  I 
don't  know  where  you  're  goin'  —  but  down  that 
way,  you  mustn't  go  till  eight  o'clock.  An'  then 
I  guess  you  '11  see  her.  It  '11  be  better  than  the 
house,  because  her  mother 's  there.  Why,"  her 
voice  faltered  and  she  ended  breathlessly,  "what 
makes  you  look  so  ?  " 

He  looked  like  wrath.  It  was  upon  his  knotted 
brow,  the  iron  lips,  and  in  the  blazing  of  his  eyes. 

"  What 's  this  I  've  been  told  ?  "  he  said,  in  a 
voice  she  had  never  heard  from  him,  "  about 
Clayton  Rand  ?  " 

She  laughed,  relieved  and  pleased  at  her  own 
cleverness. 

"  It  's  all  right,  Newell,"  she  called  gleefully. 
"  He  has  n't  been  there  for  two  weeks.  He 's 
comin'  to-night  to  take  me  to  ride,  an'  I  '11  make 
him  go  the  turnpike  road,  an'  she  '11  be  down  by 
Pine  Hollow,  an'  you  can  snap  her  up  under  her 
mother's  nose  —  an'  she  's  got  on  her  blue." 

Newell  put  out  his  hands  and  grasped  her 
wrists.  He  held  them  tight  and  looked  at  her. 
She  gazed  back  in  wonder.  In  all  the  months 
of  his  repining  she  had  not  seen  him  so,  full  of 
warm  passion,  of  a  steady  purpose. 

"  Dorcas,"  he  said,  "  I  won't  have  it !  " 

She  answered  in  pure  wonder  and  with  great 
simplicity :  — 

"  What,  Newell  ?  What  won't  you  have  ?  " 


PARTNEKS  169 

He  spoke  slowly,  leaving  intervals  between 
the  words. 

"  I  won't  have  you  ridin'  with  him,  nor  walk- 
in'  with  him,  nor  with  any  man.  If  I  'd  known 
it,  I'd  put  a  stop  to  it  before.  Why,  Dorcas, 
don't  you  know  whose  girl  you  are  ?  You  're 


mine." 


Floods  of  color  went  over  her  face,  and  she 
looked  down.  Then,  as  he  was  silent,  she  had  to 
speak. 

"  Newell,"  she  said,  "  I  only  meant — I  thought 
maybe  I  might  help  you  —  "  There  she  had  to 
look  at  him,  and  found  his  eyes  upon  her  in  a 
grave  sweetness  she  could  hardly  understand. 
No  such  flower  had  bloomed  for  her  in  her  whole 
life, 

"  Why,  Dorcas,"  he  said,  "  think  how  we  Ve 
worked  together !  What  do  you  s'pose  we  worked 
so  for?" 

Alida's  name  rose  to  her  lips,  but  her  tongue 
refused  to  speak.  At  that  moment  it  seemed  too 
slight  a  word  to  say. 

"  'T  was  so  we  could  find  out  where  we  stood," 
the  grave  voice  went  on.  "  That  was  it." 

She  felt  breathless,  as  if  they  had  together 
been  pursuing  some  slight  thing,  a  butterfly,  a 
bubble,  and  now,  when  it  was  under  their  hands, 
they  saw  that  the  thing  itself  was  not  what  mat 
tered.  It  was  the  race.  They  had  kept  step,  and 


170          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

still  together  now,  they  had  run  into  a  safe  and 
happy  place. 

There  was  the  beat  of  hoofs  upon  the  road. 

"  Stay  here,"  she  breathed.  "  I  can't  go  with 
him.  I'll  tell  him  so." 

She  ran  out  and  down  the  path,  a  swift  Ata- 
lanta,  her  white  skirts  floating.  Clayton  Rand 
was  at  the  gate.  Even  in  the  instant  of  his 
smiling  at  her  she  realized  that  the  smile  was 
that  of  one  who  is  expectant  of  a  pleasure,  but 
only  of  the  pleasure  itself,  he  does  not  care 
with  whom.  Her  eyes  glowed  upon  him,  her 
brown  cheeks  were  red  with  dancing  blood. 

"  I  can't  go,"  she  said,  in  a  full,  ecstatic  voice. 
"  Thank  you  ever  so  much.  I  can't  ever  go 
again.  See ! "  she  pointed  down  the  road.  "  Don't 
she  look  pretty  in  among  the  trees?  That  ?s 
'Lida.  She  's  got  on  her  blue." 

She  turned  and  hastened  up  the  path  again. 
At  the  door  she  paused  to  look  once  again  at 
the  spot  of  blue  through  the  vista  of  summer 
green.  It  was  moving.  It  was  mounting  into 
Clayton  Rand's  wagon.  Then  Dorcas  went  in 
where  Newell  was  waiting  to  kiss  her. 

"  He  's  drove  along,"  she  said,  from  her  trance 
of  happiness.  "  'Lida  's  gone  to  ride  with  him." 

Already  the  name  meant  no  more  to  them 
then  the  bubble  they  had  chased. 

"  Come,  Dorcas,  come,"  said  her  lover,  in  that 
new  voice.  "Come  here  to  me." 


FLOWERS  OF  PARADISE 

HETTY  NTLES,  with  a  sudden  distaste  for  her 
lonely  kitchen,  its  bare  cleanliness  the  more  re 
vealed  by  the  February  sun,  caught  her  shawl 
from  the  nail  and  threw  it  over  her  head.  She 
spoke  aloud,  in  a  way  she  had  taken  up  within 
the  last  week,  while  her  solitude  was  still  vocal 
with  notes  out  of  the  living  past:  — 

"  I  '11  go  over  an'  see  Still  Lucy." 

Her  dry  face,  hardened  to  all  weathers,  wore 
a  look  of  anguish,  an  emotion  that  smoldered 
in  the  hollows  about  the  eyes,  and  was  tensely 
drawn  around  the  mouth.  She  was  like  one  of 
the  earth-forces,  or  an  earth- servitor,  scarred 
by  work  and  trouble,  and  yet  so  unused  to  pa 
tience  that  when  it  was  forced  upon  her  she 
felt  suffocated  by  it.  She  hurried  out  into  the 
fitful  weather,  and  closed  her  door  behind  her. 
With  her  shawl  hugged  closely,  she  took  the 
path  across  the  fields,  a  line  of  dampness  in  the 
spongy  turf,  and,  head  down,  made  her  way 
steadily  to  the  little  white  house  where  Still 
Lucy,  paralyzed  for  over  thirty  years,  lay  on 
the  sofa,  knitting  lace.  Hetty  walked  into  this 
kitchen  with  as  little  ceremony  as  she  had  used 


172          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

in  leaving  her  own.  She  withdrew  the  shawl 
from  her  head,  saying,  in  the  act,  — 

"How  do,  Lucy?" 

The  woman  looked  up  from  her  work,  and 
nodded  brightly.  To  the  casual  eye  she  was  not 
of  a  defined  age.  Her  face  was  unwrinkled  and 
its  outline  delicate,  and  her  blue  eyes  were  gay 
with  even  a  childish  pleasure.  She  looked  in 
vitingly  at  the  world,  as  if  it  could  give  her  no 
thing  undesired.  Yet  the  soft  hair  rising  in  a 
crown  from  her  forehead  was  white  as  silver, 
and  her  little  hands  were  old.  She  was  covered 
to  the  waist  with  a  cheerful  quilt.  Her  fingers 
went  in  and  out  unceasingly  upon  her  work, 
while  her  bright  glance  traveled  about  the  room. 
The  stove  gave  out  the  moist  heat  of  a  kitchen 
fire  where  the  pot  is  boiling,  and  the  cat  cocked 
a  sleepy  eye  in  the  sun.  Hetty  seated  herself  by 
the  stove,  and  stretched  her  hand  absently  to 
ward  its  warmth. 

"  Parson 's  be'n  in,"  she  said  abruptly. 

"  Caroline  said  so,"  returned  Lucy,  in  her 
sweet,  husky  old  voice.  "  I  thought  likely." 

"  He  says  I  must  be  resigned,"  continued 
Hetty,  with  the  same  brusque  emphasis. 

"  Oh,  yes ! "  said  Lucy.  She  spoke  as  if  it 
were  a  task  to  be  accepted  gratefully. 

"  To  the  will  o'  God.  '  Parson,'  says  I,  '  I  don't 
believe  in  God.' " 


FLOWEKS  OF  PAKADISE       173 

Lucy's  fingers  caught  out  a  tangle  in  her 
thread,  while  her  delicate  brow  knotted  itself 
briefly. 

"Ain't  that  hard  !"  she  breathed. 

Hetty  was  brooding  over  the  fire. 

"  That 's  what  I  told  him,"  she  went  on.  "An' 
I  don't.  I  don't  know 's  ever  I  did,  to  speak  of. 
It  never  really  come  up  till  now.  He  repeated 
texts  o'  Scriptur'.  '  Parson,'  says  I,  '  you  ain't  a 
woman  that  had  one  son,  as  good  a  boy  as  ever 
stepped,  an'  then  lost  him.  'T  ain't  a  week,'  says 
I,  'sence  he  was  carried  out  o' this  house.  Don't 
you  talk  to  me  about  God.'  " 

Lucy  was  looking  at  her  with  eloquent  re 
sponses  in  her  face.  Hetty  glanced  up,  and 
partly  understood  them. 

"  Nor  you  neither,  Lucy,"  she  made  haste  to 
say.  "  You  're  terrible  pious,  an'  you  've  had 
your  troubles,  an'  they  've  be'n  heavy ;  but  you 
ain't  had  an'  lost.  If  I  could  take  it  on  me  to 
day  to  lay  there  as  you  be,  knowin'  I  should  n't 
get  up  no  more,  I  'd  jump  at  it  if  I  could  have 
"Willard  back,  whistlin'  round  an'  cuttin'  up  didos. 
Yes,  I  would." 

"  I  guess  you  would,"  murmured  Lucy  to  her 
self.  "It's  too  bad  — too  bad." 

There  was  a  step  on  the  doorstone,  and  Caro 
line  came  in.  She  was  Lucy's  sister,  gaunt  and 
dark-eyed,  with  high  cheek-bones,  and  the  red 


174          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

of  health  upon  them.  She  regarded  Hetty  pierc 
ingly. 

"  You  got  company  over  to  your  house  ?  "  she 
asked  at  once. 

"  No,"  Hetty  answered.  She  added  bitterly, 
"  It 's  stiller  'n  the  grave.  I  don't  expect  company 
no  more." 

"  Well,"  commented  Caroline. 

She  had  laid  aside  her  shawl,  and  began  fruit 
ful  sallies  about  the  kitchen,  putting  in  a  stick 
of  wood,  catching  off  the  lid  from  the  pot,  to  re 
gard  the  dinner  with  a  frowning  brow,  and  then 
sitting  down  to  extricate  from  her  pocket  a  small 
something  rolled  in  her  handkerchief. 

"  I  've  be'n  into  Mis'  Flood's,"  she  said,  "  an' 
she  gi'n  me  this."  She  walked  over  to  her  sister, 
bearing  the  treasure  with  a  joyous  pride.  "  It 's 
as  nice  a  slip  o'  rose  geranium  as  ever  I  see." 

Hetty's  face  contracted  sharply. 

"  I  've  throwed  away  the  flowers,"  she  said. 

Both  sisters  glanced  at  her  in  sympathetic 
knowledge.  Caroline  was  busily  setting  out  the 
slip  in  a  side  of  the  calla  pot,  and  she  got  a  tum 
bler  to  cover  it. 

"  Them  parson's  wife  sent  over  ?  "  she  asked. 

Hetty  nodded.  "  There  was  a  dozen  of  'em," 
she  continued,  with  pride,  "  white  carnation 
pinks." 

"  She  sent  way  to  Fairfax  for  'em,"  said  Caro- 


FLOWERS  OF  PARADISE       175 

line.  "Her  girl  told  me.  Handsome,  wa'n't 
they?" 

"  They  wa'n't  no  handsomer  'n  what  come  from 
round  here,"  said  Hetty  jealously,  "  not  a  mite. 
There  you  sent  over  your  calla,  an'  Mis'  Flood 
cut  off  that  long  piece  o'  German  ivy,  an'  the  little 
Ballard  gal,  —  nothin'  would  do  but  she  must 
pick  all  them  gloxinias  an'  have  'em  for  Wil- 
lard's  funeral.  I  did  n't  hardly  know  there  was 
so  many  flowers  in  the  world,  in  winter  time." 
She  mused  a  moment,  her  face  fallen  into  grief. 
Then  she  roused  herself.  "What'd  you  mean 
by  askin'  if  I  had  company  ?  "  she  interrogated 
Caroline. 

"  Nothin',  on'y  they  say  Susan's  boy 's  round 
here." 

"  Susan's  boy  ?  From  out  West  ?  " 

Caroline  nodded. 

"He  was  into  Mis'  Flood's  yesterday,"  she 
said,  "  inquirin'  all  about  you.  Said  he  had  n't 
seen  you  sence  he  was  a  little  feller.  Said  he 
shouldn't  hardly  dast  to  call,  now  you  an'  his 
mother  wa'n't  on  terms.  Seems  's  if  he  knew  all 
about  that  trouble  over  the  land." 

Hetty's  face  lighted  scornfully. 

"  Trouble  over  the  land !  "  she  echoed.  "  Who 
made  the  trouble  ?  That 's  what  I  want  to  know 
—  who  made  it  ?  Susan  Hill  May,  that 's  who 
made  it.  You  needn't  look  at  me,  Lucy.  I  ain't 


176          COUNTKY  NEIGHBOES 

pious,  as  you  be,  an'  I  don't  care  if  she  is  my 
step-sister.  You  know  how  't  was,  as  well  as  I 
do.  Mother  left  me  the  house  because  I  was  a 
widder  an'  poor  as  poverty,  an'  she  left  Susan 
the  pastur'.  'T  was  always  understood  I  was  to 
pastur'  my  cow  in  that  pastur',  Susan  livin'  out 
West  an'  all,  an'  I  always  had,  sence  Benjamin 
died;  but  the  minute  mother  left  me  the  house, 
Susan  May  set  up  her  Ebenezer  I  should  n't  have 
the  use  o'  that  pastur'.  She 's  way  out  West 
there,  an'  she  don't  want  it ;  but  she  'd  see  it  sunk 
ruther  'n  I  should  have  the  good  on  't." 

"  Well,"  said  Lucy  soothingly,  "  you  ain't  pas- 
tur'd  there  sence  she  forbid  it." 

"  No,  I  guess  I  ain't,"  returned  Hetty,  rising 
to  go.  "  Nor  I  ain't  set  foot  in  it.  What 's  Mis' 
Flood  say  about  Susan's  boy  ?  "  she  asked  ab 
ruptly,  turning  to  Caroline. 

"  Well,"  —  Caroline  hesitated,  —  "  she  said  he 
was  in  liquor  when  he  called,  an'  she  heard  he  'd 
be'n  carryin'  on  some  over  to  the  Street." 

Hetty  nodded  grimly.  She  spoke  with  an  ex 
alted  sadness. 

"  I  ain't  surprised.  Susan  drove  her  husband 
to  drink,  an'  she  'd  drive  a  saint.  Well,  my  Wil- 
lard  was  as  good  a  boy  as  ever  stepped.  That 's 
all  I  got  to  say." 

The  sisters  had  exchanged  according  glances, 
and  Caroline  asked :  — 


FLOWERS  OF  PARADISE       177 

"  Stay  an'  set  down  with  us  ?  It's  b'iled  dish. 
I  guess  you  can  smell  it." 

Hetty  was  drawing  her  shawl  about  her.  She 
shook  her  head. 

"  No/'  said  she.  "  'Bleeged  to  ye.  I  '11  pick  up 
suthin'." 

But  later,  entering  her  own  kitchen,  she 
stopped  and  drew  a  sharp  breath,  like  an  out 
cry  against  the  desolation  there.  The  room  was 
in  its  homely  order,  to  be  broken,  she  felt,  no 
more.  She  was  childless.  All  the  zest  of  work 
had  gone.  She  threw  off  her  shawl  then,  with  a 
savage  impatience  at  her  own  grief,  and  began 
her  tasks.  In  the  midst  of  them  she  paused, 
laid  down  her  cooking-spoon,  and  sank  into  a 
chair. 

"O  Lord!  "she  moaned.  "My  Lord!"  This 
was  the  worst  of  all  the  days  since  he  had  died. 
She  understood  it  now.  The  flowers  were  gone. 
They  had  formed  a  link  between  the  present 
and  that  day  when  they  made  the  sitting-room 
so  sweet.  Even  the  fragrance  of  that  last  sad 
hour  had  fled.  Suddenly  she  laughed,  a  bitter 
note.  She  spoke  aloud  :  — 

"  If  the  Lord  '11  send  me  some  flowers  afore 
to-morrer  night,  I'll  believe  in  Him.  If  He'll 
send  me  one  flower  or  a  sprig  o'  green,  I  '11 
believe  in  Him,  an'  hold  up  my  head  rejoicin', 
like  Still  Lucy." 


178          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOES 

She  repeated  the  words,  as  if  to  One  who 
heard.  Thereafter  a  quickened  energy  possessed 
her.  She  got  her  dinner  alertly,  and  with  some 
vestige  of  the  interest  she  had  been  used  to  feel 
when  she  cooked  for  two.  All  the  afternoon  it 
was  the  same.  Her  mind  dwelt  passionately 
upon  the  compact  she  had  offered  the  Unseen. 
Over  and  over  she  repeated  the  terms  of  it, 
sometimes  with  eager  commentary. 

"  It  can't  hurt  nobody,"  she  reasoned,  in  pit 
eous  argument.  Her  gnarled  hands  trembled  as 
she  worked,  and  now,  with  nobody  to  note  her 
weakness,  tears  fell  unregarded  down  her  face. 
"  There  's  things  I  would  n't  ask  for,  whether  or 
no.  Mebbe  they  'd  have  to  be  took  away  from 
somebody  else  ;  an'  I  never  was  one  to  plead 
up  poverty.  But  there  's  plenty  o'  flowers  in  the 
world.  'T  would  n't  upset  nothin'  for  me  to  have 
jest  one  afore  to-morrer  night.  If  I  can  have 
one  flower  afore  to-morrer  night,  I  shall  know 
there 's  a  God  in  heaven." 

The  day  began  with  a  sense  of  newness  and 
exaltation  at  which  she  wondered.  Until  this 
hour,  death  had  briefly  ruled  the  house  and 
chilled  the  air  in  it.  Her  son's  overthrow  had 
struck  at  the  heart  of  her  vitality  and  presaged 
her  own  swift  doom.  All  lesser  interests  had 
dwindled  and  grown  poor ;  her  life  seemed 
flickering  out  like  a  taper  in  the  breeze.  Now 


FLOWERS  OF  PARADISE       179 

grief  had  something  to  leaven  it.  Something  had 
set  up  a  screen  between  her  and  the  wind  of 
unmerciful  events.  There  was  a  possibility,  not 
of  reprieve,  but  of  a  message  from  the  unseen 
good,  and  for  a  moment  the  candle  of  her  life 
burned  steadily.  Since  the  dead  could  not  re 
turn,  stricken  mortality  had  one  shadowy  hope: 
that  it  should  go,  in  its  course,  to  them,  and  find 
them  living.  Again  she  vowed  her  belief  to  the 
God  who  would  send  one  sign  of  his  well-wish 
ing  toward  her. 

"  I  '11  set  till  twelve  o'clock  this  night,"  she 
said  grimly,  laying  her  morning  fire.  u  That 's 
eighteen  hours.  If  He  can't  do  suthin'  in  eigh 
teen  hours,  He  can't  ever  do  it." 

At  ten  o'clock  her  work  was  done,  and  she 
established  herself  by  the  sitting-room  window, 
her  knitting  in  hand,  to  watch  for  him  who  was 
to  come.  A  warm  excitement  flooded  through 
her  veins. 

"  How  my  heart  beats !  "  she  said  aloud.  It 
had  hurried  through  the  peril  of  Willard's  ill 
ness  and  the  disaster  of  his  death.  It  was  hurry 
ing  now,  as  if  it  meant  to  gallop  with  her  from 
the  world. 

At  half-past  ten  there  was  the  sound  of 
wheels.  She  dropped  her  knitting  and  put  her 
hand  up  to  her  throat.  A  carriage  turned  the 
bend  in  the  road  and  passed  the  clump  of  wil- 


180          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOKS 

lows.  It  was  the  minister's  wife,  driving  at  a 
good  pace  and  leaning  out  to  bow.  Hetty  rose, 
trembling,  her  hand  on  the  window-sill.  But  the 
minister's  wife  gave  another  smiling  nod  and 
flicked  the  horse.  She  was  not  the  messenger. 

Hetty  sank  back  to  her  work,  and  knit  with 
trembling  fingers.  The  forenoon  wore  on.  It  was 
Candlemas,  and  cloudy,  and  she  remembered  that 
the  badger  would  not  go  back  into  his  hole.  There 
would  be  an  early  spring.  Then  grief  caught  her 
again  by  the  throat,  at  the  thought  that  spring 
might  come,  and  summer  greaten,  but  she  was 
a  stricken  woman  whose  joy  would  not  return. 
She  rose  from  her  chair  and  called  out  passion 
ately,  — 

"  Only  one  flower,  jest  one  sprig  o'  suthin',  an' 
I  '11  be  contented !  " 

That  day  she  had  no  dinner.  She  made  it  ready, 
with  a  scrupulous  exactitude,  but  she  could  not 
eat.  She  went  back  to  her  post  at  the  window. 
Nobody  went  by.  Of  all  the  neighbors  who  might 
have  driven  to  market,  not  one  appeared.  Life 
itself  seemed  to  be  stricken  from  her  world.  At 
four  o'clock  she  caught  her  shawl  from  its  nail, 
and  ran  across  the  field  to  Lucy.  Both  sisters 
were  at  home,  in  the  still  tranquillity  of  their  pur 
suits,  Lucy  knitting  and  Caroline  binding  shoes. 
Hetty  came  in  upon  them  as  if  a  wind  had  blown 
her. 


FLOATERS  OF  PARADISE       181 

"  Law  me !  "  said  Caroline,  looking  up.  "  Any 
thing  happened  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Hetty,  "nothin'  ?e  happened.  I 
don't  know  as  't  ever  will." 

She  sat  down  and  talked  recklessly  about  no 
thing.  A  calla  bud,  yesterday  a  roll  of  white, 
had  opened,  and  the  sun  lay  in  its  heart.  Hetty 
set  her  lips  grimly,  and  refused  to  look  at  it. 
Yet,  as  her  voice  rang  on,  the  feverish  will  within 
her  kept  telling  her  what  she  might  say.  She 
might  ask  for  the  well-being  of  the  slip  set  out 
yesterday,  or  she  might  even  venture,  "  I  should 
think  you'd  move  your  calla  out  o'  the  sun. 
Won't  it  wilt  the  bloom  ?  "  Then  Lucy  might 
tell  Caroline  to  snip  off  the  bloom  and  give  it  to 
her.  But  no  one  spoke  of  plants.  Her  breath 
quickened  chokingly,  and  her  heart  swelled  and 
made  her  sick.  Suddenly  she  rose  and  threw  her 
shawl  about  her  in  wild  haste. 

"I  must  go,"  she  trembled;  but  at  the  door 
Lucy  stayed  her. 

"  Hetty,"  she  called.  Her  voice  faltered,  and 
her  eyes  looked  soft  under  wistful  brows. 
"Hetty!" 

Hetty  was  waiting,  in  a  tremor  of  suspense. 

"  "Well,"  she  answered,  her  voice  beating  upon 
the  word.  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

Still  Lucy  spoke  with  diffidence,  as  she  always 
did  when  she  touched  upon  her  faith. 


182          COUKTEY  TSTEIGHBOKS 

"I  was  only  thinkin' — I  dunno 's  I  can  tell 
you,  Hetty  —  but  what  you  said  yesterday,  you 
know,  about  not  belie  vin'  there's  any  God  —  I 
was  goin'  to  ask  you  who  you  think  made  the 
trees  an'  flowers." 

Hetty  did  not  answer.  She  stood  there,  her 
hands  trembling  underneath  her  shawl.  She 
gripped  them,  one  upon  the  other,  to  keep  from 
stretching  them  for  alms. 

"  Well,"  she  answered  harshly.  "  Well!  " 

"Well,"  said  Lucy  gently,  "that  ?s  all." 

Hetty  laughed  out  stridently. 

"  I  'm  goin'  over  to  Mis'  Flood's,"  said  she,  her 
hand  upon  the  latch. 

"  They  Ve  driv'  over  to  Fairfax  to  spend  the 
day,"  volunteered  Caroline.  "  Better  by  half  set 
here." 

"Then  I'm  goin'  over  to  Ballard's."  She  fled 
down  the  road  so  fast  that  Caroline,  watching 
her  compassionately,  remarked  that  she  "  looked 
as  if  she  's  sent  for,"  and  Lucy  said,  like  a  charm, 
a  phrase  of  the  Lord's  Prayer. 

Hetty  looked  up  at  the  Floods'  and  groaned, 
remembering  there  were  plants  within.  She  spoke 
aloud,  satirically:  — 

"  Mebbe  I  could  be  the  instrument  o'  the  Lord. 
Mebbe  if  I  climbed  into  the  winder,  an'  stole  a 
bloom,  I  could  say  He  give  it  to  me." 

But  she  went  on,  and  hurried  up  the  path  to 


FLOWERS  OF  PARADISE       183 

the  little  one-story  house  where  the  Ballards 
lived.  Grandsir  was  by  the  fire,  pounding  wal 
nuts  in  a  little  wooden  mortar,  to  make  a  paste 
for  his  toothless  jaws,  and  little  'Melia,  a  bowl  of 
nuts  before  her,  sat  in  a  high  chair  at  the  table, 
lost  in  reckless  greed.  Her  doll,  forgotten,  lay 
across  a  corner  of  the  table,  in  limp  abandon, 
the  buttonholed  eyes  staring  nowhere.  Grandsir 
spoke  wheezingly :  — 

"  We  're  keepin'  house,  'Melia  an'  me.  We 
thought  we  'd  crack  us  a  few  nuts.  Help  your 
self,  Hetty." 

'Melia  lifted  her  bowl  with  two  fat  hands,  and 
held  it  out,  tiltingly.  Her  round  blue  eyes  shone 
in  a  painstaking  hospitality.  She  was  a  good 
little  'Melia. 

"  No,  dear,  you  set  it  down.  I  don't  want 
none,"  said  Hetty  tenderly.  She  steadied  the 
bowl  on  its  way  back,  and  'Melia,  relinquishing 
the  claims  of  entertainment,  picked  into  her 
small  mouth  with  a  swift  avidity. 

"  Clever  little  creatur' !  "  Hetty  continued,  in 
a  frank  aside. 

But  Grandsir  had  not  heard. 

"  How  old  was  Willard  ?  "  he  inquired,  paus 
ing  to  test  the  mass  his  mortar  held. 

The  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  Thirty-four,"  she  answered. 

"How  old?" 


184          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOKS 

After  she  had  repeated  it,  'Melia  turned  sud 
denly,  and  made  a  solemn  statement. 

"  I  picked  off  my  gloxinias  and  gave  'em  all 
to  Willard."  She  lisped  on  the  name,  and  made 
it  a  funny  flower. 

Hetty  was  trembling. 

"  Yes,  dear,  yes,"  she  responded  prayerfully. 
"They  were  real  handsome  blooms.  I  was 
obleeged  to  ye."  She  wondered  if  the  lisping 
mouth  would  say,  "  There  's  another  one  open," 
and  the  fat  hand  pluck  it  for  her.  She  shut  her 
lips  and  tried  to  seal  her  mind,  lest  the  child 
should  be  prompted  and  the  test  should  fail. 

"I  dunno  's  I  remember  what  year  Willard's 
father  died  ?  "  Grandsir  was  inquiring. 

"  O  Lord !  "  breathed  Hetty,  "  I  can't  bear  no 


more." 


She  threw  her  shawl  over  her  head,  and  hur 
ried  out. 

"  Come  again,"  the  childish  voice  called  after 
her. 

Grandsir  had  begun  to  eat  his  nuts.  He 
scarcely  knew  she  had  been  there. 

Hetty  went  swiftly  homeward  through  the 
dusk.  The  damp  air  was  clogging  to  the  breath, 
and  for  a  moment  her  warm  kitchen  seemed  a 
refuge  to  her.  But  only  for  a  moment.  It  was 
very  still. 

"  I  '11  give  it  up,"  she  said.  "  There  's  flowers 


FLOWERS  OF  PARADISE        185 

in  the  world,  an'  not  one  for  me.  I  might  'a' 
had  'em  if  He'd  took  the  trouble  to  send.  That 
proves  it.  There  ain't  anybody  to  send,  —  nor 


care." 


She  walked  about  in  a  grim  scorn  of  every 
thing:  the  world,  the  way  it  was  made,  and  her 
self  for  trusting  it.  When  she  had  made  a  cup 
of  tea  and  broken  bread,  the  warmth  came  back 
to  her  chilled  heart,  and  suddenly  her  scorn 
turned  against  herself. 

"  I  said  I'd  wait  till  twelve  o'clock  to-night," 
she  owned.  "  I  'm  the  one  that 's  petered  out. 
This  is  the  last  word  I  speak  till  arter  twelve." 

She  fortified  herself  with  stronger  tea,  and 
sat  grimly  down  to  knit.  The  minutes  and  the 
half-hours  passed.  She  rose,  from  time  to  time, 
and  fed  the  fire,  and  once,  at  eleven,  when  a 
cold  rain  began,  she  put  her  face  to  the  pane. 

"  Dark  as  pitch !  "  she  muttered.  "  If  any 
body  's  comin',  they  could  n't  see  their  way." 

Then  she  lighted  another  lamp  and  set  it  in 
the  window.  It  was  a  quarter  before  twelve 
when  her  trembling  hands  failed  her,  and  she 
laid  down  her  knitting  and  walked  to  the  front 
door.  The  northeast  wind  whipped  her  in  the 
face,  and  she  could  hear  the  surf  at  Breakers' 
Edge.  The  pathway  of  light  from  the  window 
lay  upon  a  figure  by  the  gate.  A  voice  came  out 
of  the  stillness.  It  was  young  and  frank. 


186          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  I  'm  holdin'  up  your  fence,  to  rest  a  spell. 
I  've  given  my  ankle  a  twist  somehow." 

Hetty  ran  out  into  the  storm,  and  the  wind 
lashed  strands  of  hair  into  her  eyes.  She 
stretched  a  hand  over  the  fence,  and  laid  it  on 
the  man's  shoulder. 

"  Who  be  you  ?  "  she  demanded. 

He  laughed. 

"  I  '11  tell  you,  if  you  won't  bat  me  for  it.  I  'm 
your  own  nephew,  near  as  I  can  make  out." 

"  Susan's  son  ?" 

"Yes.  Much  as  my  life's  worth,  ain't  it? 
Never  saw  anything  like  you  an'  mother  when 
you  get  fightin',  —  reg'lar  old  barnyard  fowls." 

She  gripped  his  shoulder  tightly.  Her  voice 
had  a  sob  in  it,  and  a  prayer. 

"  You  got  anything  for  me?  " 

He  answered  wonderingly. 

"  Why,  no,  I  don't  know 's  I  have.  My  ankle 's 
busted,  that 's  all.  I  guess  I  can  crawl  along  in 
a  minute." 

She  remembered  how  fast  the  clock  was  get 
ting  on  toward  midnight,  and  spoke  in  dull  civil- 
ity. 

"  You  come  in.  I  '11  bandage  ye  up.  Mebbe 
't  will  save  ye  a  sprain." 

Later,  when  he  was  by  the  fire  and  she  had 
done  skillful  work  with  water  and  cotton  cloth, 
and  the  pain  would  let  him,  he  looked  at  her  again. 


FLOWERS  OF  PARADISE       187 

"  You  an'  mother  ain't  no  more  alike  than  a 
black  an'  a  maltee,"  he  said.  "  Hullo !  what  you 
cry  in'  for  ?  " 

The  tears  were  splashing  her  swift  hands. 

"  I  dunno,"  she  answered  shortly.  "  Yes,  I  do, 
too.  You  speak  some  like  Willard." 

The  clock  was  striking  two  when  she  went  to 
bed,  and  she  slept  at  once.  It  was  necessary,  she 
told  herself.  There  was  a  man  in  the  west  room, 
and  his  ankle  was  hurt,  and  she  must  get  up 
early  to  call  the  doctor. 

The  next  day  and  the  next  went  like  moments 
of  a  familiar  dream.  The  doctor  came,  and  the 
boy  —  he  was  twenty-six,  but  he  seemed  only  a 
boy  —  joked  while  he  winced,  and  owned  he  had 
nothing  to  do,  and  could  easily  lie  still  a  spell,  if 
aunt  Het  would  keep  him.  She  was  sorry  over 
the  hurt,  and,  knowing  no  other  compensation 
for  a  man's  idleness,  began  to  cook  delicate  things 
for  his  eating.  He  laughed  at  everything,  even 
at  her  when  she  was  too  solicitous.  But  he  was 
sorry  for  her,  and  when  she  spoke  of  Willard  his 
face  softened.  She  thought  sometimes  of  what 
she  had  heard  about  him  before  he  came;  and 
one  April  day,  when  they  were  out  in  the  yard 
together,  he  leaning  on  his  cane  and  she  sweep 
ing  the  grass,  she  spoke  involuntarily:  — 

"  I  can't  hardly  believe  it." 

"  What  ?  "  he  asked. 


188          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"Folks  said"  —  she  hesitated — "folks  said 
you  was  a  drinkin'  man." 

He  laughed  out. 

"  I  did  get  overtaken,"  he  owned.  "  I  was 
awful  discouraged,  the  night  I  struck  here.  I 
didn't  care  whether  school  kept  or  not.  But 
't  was  Lew  Parker's  whiskey,"  he  added,  twink 
ling  at  her.  "  That  whiskey  'd  poison  a  rat." 

She  paused,  with  a  handful  of  chips  gathered 
from  the  clean  grass. 

"What  was  you  discouraged  about?"  she 
asked  kindly. 

"  Well,"—  he  hesitated,  —  "  I  may  as  well  tell 
you.  I've  invented  somethin'.  It  goes  onto  a 
reaper.  Mother  never  believed  in  it,  an'  she 
turned  me  down.  So  I  came  East.  I  could  n't 
get  anybody  to  look  at  it,  an'  I  was  pretty  blue. 
Then  the  same  day  I  busted  my  ankle  I  heard 
from  another  man,  an'  he  '11  buy  it  an'  take  all  the 
risk,  an' —  George !  I  guess  mother  '11  sing  small 
when  Johnnie  comes  marchin'  home  !  " 

He  looked  so  strong  and  full  of  hope  that 
her  own  sorrow  cried,  and  her  face  worked  pit- 
eously. 

"  You  goin'  back  ?"  she  faltered. 

"  Sometime,  aunt  Het.  'Long  towards  fall, 
maybe,  to  get  things  into  shape.  Then  I'm 
comin'  back  again,  to  put  it  through.  Who's 
that  ?  " 


FLOWERS  OF  PAEADISE        189 

It  was  a  neighbor,  stopping  his  slumberous 
horse  to  leave  a  letter. 

"  That 's  Susan's  hand,"  said  Hetty,  as  she 
gave  it  to  him. 

He  read  it  and  laughed  a  little.  His  eyes  were 
moist. 

"  See  here,  aunt  Het,"  he  said,  "  mother's  had 
a  change  of  heart  because  I  busted  my  ankle  an' 
you  took  care  of  me  an'  all,  —  an'  look  here !  she 
says  she  wants  you  should  use  the  long  pastur'." 

Hetty  dropped  her  apron  and  the  chips  it  held. 
She  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  looking  out  over 
the  meadow  and  wishing  Willard  knew.  Then 
she  said  practically, — 

"  Soon  's  your  ankle  '11  bear  ye,  we  '11  poke 
down  there  an'  see  how  things  seem." 

In  a  week's  time  they  went  slowly  down  to 
look  over  the  fences,  preparatory  to  turning  in 
the  cow.  Hetty  glanced  at  the  sky,  with  its 
fleece  of  flying  cloud,  and  then  at  the  grass,  so 
bright  that  the  eyes  marveled  at  it.  The  old 
ache  was  keen  within  her.  The  earth  bereft  of 
her  son  would  never  be  the  same  earth  again, 
but  some  homely  comforting  had  reached  her 
with  the  springing  of  the  leaf.  She  looked  at 
the  boy  by  her  side.  He  was  a  pretty  boy,  she 
thought,  and  she  was  glad  Susan  had  him.  And 
suddenly  it  came  to  her  that  he  had  been  lent 
her  for  a  little  while,  and  she  was  glad  of  that. 


190          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOKS 

too.  His  hurt  had  kept  her  busy.  His  ways 
about  the  house,  even  the  careless  ones,  had 
strengthened  the  grief  in  her,  but  in  a  human, 
poignant  way  that  had  no  bitterness. 

They  went  about,  testing  the  fence-lengths, 
and  then,  before  they  left  the  pasture,  stood,  by 
according  impulse,  and  looked  back  into  its 
trembling  green.  The  boy  had  let  down  the 
bars,  but  he  was  loath  to  go. 

"  Stop  a  minute,"  he  said,  pointing  to  an  up 
land  bank  where  the  sun  lay  warm.  "  I  'm  tired." 

"  Lazy,  more  like,"  said  Hetty.  But  he  knew 
she  said  it  fondly. 

He  lay  down  at  full  length,  and  she  sank 
stiffly  on  the  bank  and  leaned  her  elbow  there. 
She  looked  at  the  sky  and  then  at  the  bank.  It 
was  blue  with  violets.  There  were  so  many  of 
them  that,  as  they  traveled  up  the  sod,  they 
made  a  purple  stain. 

"  Well,  aunt  Het,"  said  he,  "  you  Ve  got  the 
pastur'." 

She  nodded. 

"  Don't  make  much  difference  how  long  you 
wait,"  he  continued,  "if  it  comes  at  last."  He 
was  thinking  of  his  patent,  and  Hetty  knew  it. 

"  Mebbe  we  can't  have  things  when  we  ex 
pect  to,"  she  answered  comprehendingly.  "  Still 
Lucy 's  great  on  that.  (  Don't  do  no  good  to  set 
up  your  Ebenezer,'  says  she.  '  You  got  to  wait 


FLOWERS  OP  PARADISE        191 

for  things  to  grow.'  Lucy 's  dretf ul  pious."  She 
passed  her  brown  hands  over  the  violet  heads, 
as  gently  as  a  breeze,  caressing  but  not  bend 
ing  them.  "  I  dunno  's  ever  I  see  so  many  vi'lets 
afore." 

"  Like  'em,  aunt  Het  ?  "  he  asked  her  kindly. 

"  I  guess  I  do ! "  but  as  she  spoke,  her  eyes 
widened  in  awe  and  wonder.  "  My  Lord !  "  she 
breathed.  "  They  're  flowers." 

The  boy  laughed. 

"  What  'd  you  think  they  were  ?  "  he  asked, 
with  the  same  indulgent  interest.  "Herd's 
grass  ? " 

He  turned  over  and  buried  his  sleepy  visage 
in  the  new  leaves.  But  Hetty  was  communing 
with  herself.  Her  old  face  had  a  look  of  hushed 
solemnity.  Her  eyes  were  lighted  from  within. 

"  Sure  enough,"  she  murmured  reverently. 
"  They  're  flowers." 


GARDENER  JIM 

"  called  Mrs.  Marshall,  as  the  old  man, 
carrying  a  basket  in  one  hand  and  a  spade  in 
the  other,  was  trudging  steadily  by.  His  blue 
overalls  and  jumper  were  threadbare  under  the 
soft  brown  they  had  achieved  through  his  stren 
uous  kneeling  and  the  general  intimacy  of  weeds 
and  sod.  He  had  a  curious  neutrality  of  expres 
sion  —  perhaps  an  indifference  to  what  his  blue 
eyes  fell  upon,  save  when  they  looked  out  from 
under  their  rugged  brows  at  the  growing  things 
he  tended.  Then  the  lines  about  them  multiplied 
and  deepened,  and  his  face  took  on  new  life. 

Mrs.  Marshall,  the  large  lady  at  the  gate, 
splendidly  starched  in  her  afternoon  calico,  re 
garded  him  without  personal  interest.  He  was 
merely  an  old  resident  likely  to  clear  up  a  mat 
ter  that  had  been  blurred  during  her  years  of 
absence  in  the  "West.  Jim's  eyes  traveled  past 
her  to  the  garden  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  where 
yellow  flower-de-luce  was  beginning  to  blow. 

"They'd  ought  to  put  some  muck  on  them 
pinies  last  fall,"  said  he,  in  a  soft  voice  which 
his  gnarled  aspect  had  not  foretold. 

"  Now  you  stop  thinkin'  gardins  for  a  minute 


GARDENER  JIM  193 

an'  pay  some  heed  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall. 
"  How  was  I  goin'  to  look  out  for  the  pinies, 
when  I  only  come  into  the  property  this  spring  ? 
Uncle  'd  ha'  seen  'em  mowed  down  for  fodder 
before  he  'd  ha'  let  you  or  anybody  else  poke 
round  over  anything  't  was  his.  But  what  I  want 
to  know  is — what  was't  the  Miller  twins  had 
their  quarrel  about,  all  them  years  ago?" 

Jim  answered  without  hesitation  or  interest : 
"  'T  was  about  a  man.  They  both  on  'em  set 
by  one  man,  an'  he  led  'em  pn.  He  made 
trouble  betwixt  'em.  'T  was  thirty  year  ago 


an'  more." 


"  An'  they  ain't  spoke  sence !  My !  what  fools 
anybody  can  make  of  themselves  over  a  man ! 
He 's  dead  now,  ain't  he  ?  " 

"  I  dunno,"  said  Jim.  Abstraction  had  settled 
upon  him.  "  Say,  Mis'  Marshall,  what  if  I  should 
drop  in  an'  'tend  to  them  pinies  ?  " 

"Fush  on  the  pinies!"  said  Mrs.  Marshall 
heartily.  "  You  can,  if  't  '11  be  any  comfort  to  ye. 
'T  was  they  that  made  me  think  o'  the  Miller 
twins.  Husband  never  got  over  talkin'  about 
their  pinies.  I'd  ruther  have  a  good  head  o' 
lettuce  than  all  the  pinies  that  ever  blowed." 

Jim  dropped  his  traps,  opened  the  gate,  walked 
past  her  without  a  word,  and  began  a  profes 
sional  examination  of  the  garden-beds.  When 
he  came  to  a  neglected  line  of  box,  he  made  a 


194          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

sympathetic  clucking  of  the  tongue,  and  before 
a  rosebush,  coming  out  in  meagre  leafage,  he 
stayed  a  long  time. 

"  Too  bad !  "  he  said,  as  if  the  bush  appealed 
to  him  for  comfort.  "  Too  bad ! " 

Mrs.  Marshall  had  gone  contentedly  back  to 
her  sewing  by  the  window,  and  a  cautious  voice 
challenged  her  from  the  bedroom,  where  her 
daughter,  Lily,  was  changing  her  dress. 

"  Well,"  said  Lily,  "  I  guess  you  've  done  it 
this  time.  Didn't  you  know  'twas  Jim's  wife 
the  man  run  off  with  ?  Well,  it  was." 

Mrs.  Marshall  paused  in  her  work. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  I  don't  know  whether  to 
laugh  or  cry.  I  believe  husband  did  use  to  say 
so.  I  ain't  thought  of  it  for  years.  How  'd  you 
find  out  so  much  ?  " 

"  I  guess  I  don't  have  to  be  in  a  place  long 
without  hearin'  all  there  is  to  hear,"  said  Lily, 
coming  out  in  her  crisp  pink  muslin.  "Here, 
you  hook  me  up.  Why,  mother,  he  's  Wilfred's 
own  uncle !  Wilfred  told  me.  He  said  his  uncle 
never  'd  been  the  same  man  since  his  wife  run 
away." 

Jim  was  wandering  back  to  the  road,  deflected 
now  and  then  by  some  starveling  plant. 

"  Anything  you  want  to  do,"  called  Mrs.  Mar 
shall,  with  a  compensatory  impulse,  "you're  wel 
come  to.  I  may  put  in  a  few  seeds." 


GARDENER  JIM  195 

Jim  stood  there,  shaking  his  head  in  great 
dissatisfaction. 

"  It  would  n't  ha'  done  a  mite  o'  good  for  me 
to  come  here  while  he  was  alive,"  he  said,  as  if 
he  accounted  to  himself  for  that  grievous  lapse. 
"  He  'd  ha'  turned  me  out,  neck  an'  crop,  if  I  'd 
laid  a  finger  on  it." 

"  Well,  you  come  when  you  can,"  said  Mrs. 
Marshall.  She  was  benevolently  willing  to  fall 
in  with  Gardener  Jim's  peculiarities,  because, 
being  love-cracked,  he  had  no  particular  occu 
pation  save  this  self-chosen  one.  "What  you 
s'pose  I  said  to  the  new  minister  about  you, 
Jim  ?  "  she  continued  kindly. 

"Dunno,"  returned  Jim,  in  his  soft  voice. 
"Dunno." 

"  Well,  he  says  to  me, '  I  never  see  such  a  lot 
o'  nice  gardins  as  there  is  round  here.'  '  Don't 
you  know  the  reason  ? '  says  I.  *  Why,  Gardener 
Jim  goes  round  an'  takes  care  of  'em  without 
money  an'  without  price.'  Wake  up,  Jim.  That 's 
what  I  said." 

The  look  of  response  had  vanished  from  his 
face.  He  had  taken  a  knife  from  his  pocket  and 
was  clipping  a  dead  branch  from  the  prairie 
queen  at  the  window.  When  the  deed  had  been 
done  with  great  nicety,  he  closed  the  knife,  re 
turned  it  to  his  pocket,  and  took  his  way  silently 
out  of  the  yard.  Mrs.  Marshall,  glancing  up 


196          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

from  her  sewing,  saw  him  again  trudging  toward 
his  lonely  home. 

"When  Jim  went  along  like  that,  his  head  bent 
and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  people 
often  wondered  whether  he  was  thinking  of 
anything  at  all,  or  whether  such  intentness  did 
betoken  a  grave  preoccupation.  Sometimes  they 
tested  him.  "What  you  thinkin'  about,  Jim?" 
one  would  ask  him,  when  they  met  upon  the 
road;  but  Jim  never  replied  in  any  illuminating 
way.  If  he  answered  at  all,  it  was  only  to  query, 
"  How  's  your  gardin  ?  "  and  then,  as  soon  as 
the  response  was  given,  to  nod  and  hurry  on 
again.  If  the  garden  was  reported  as  not  doing 
very  well,  Jim  was  there  next  morning,  like  the 
family  doctor. 

To-day,  when  he  reached  the  cross-road  lead 
ing  to  his  little  black  house,  he  paused  a  mo 
ment,  as  if  he  were  working  out  something  and 
must  wait  for  the  answer.  Then  he  continued  on 
the  way  he  had  been  going,  and  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  farther  on  stopped  before  a  great  house  of 
a  dull  and  time-worn  yellow,  where,  in  the  cor 
responding  front  window  of  the  upper  chambers, 
two  women  sat,  each  in  her  own  solitary  state, 
binding  shoes.  These  were  the  Miller  twins. 
Sophy  saw  him  as  he  opened  the  side  gate  and 
went  along  her  path  to  the  back  of  the  house. 
She  rose,  tossed  her  work  on  the  table,  and  ran 


GARDENER  JIM  197 

into  an  overlooking  chamber  to  watch  him. 
Sophy  had  been  the  pretty  one  of  the  family. 
Now  her  fair  face  had  broadened,  her  blond  hair 
showed  a  wide  track  at  the  parting,  and  her 
mouth  dropped  at  the  corners  ;  but  her  faded 
blue  eyes  still  looked  wistfully  through  their 
glasses.  They  had  a  grave  simplicity,  like  that 
of  a  child. 

As  she  watched  Gardener  Jim,  a  frown  came 
upon  her  forehead.  "  What  under  heavens  ? " 
she  muttered  ;  and  then  she  saw.  Jim  was  ex 
amining  her  neglected  garden,  and  the  wonder 
was  not  in  that.  It  was  that  after  all  these  years, 
when  he  had  worked  for  other  people,  suddenly 
he  had  come  to  her.  A  moment  after,  he  looked 
up,  to  find  her  at  his  elbow. 

"  I  should  think  anybody  'd  be  ashamed,"  said 
he,  "to  let  things  go  to  wrack  an'  ruin  this 
way."  The  paths  were  thick  with  weeds.  Faith 
ful  sweet-william  and  phlox  had  evidently  strug 
gled  for  years  and  barely  held  their  own  against 
misfortune,  and  bouncing-bet  was  thrifty.  But 
others  of  the  loved  in  old-time  gardens  had 
starved  and  died.  "  You  used  to  have  the  hand 
somest  canterbury-bells  anywhere  round,"  said 
Jim.  He  spoke  seriously,  as  if  it  pained  him 
to  find  things  at  such  a  pass.  "Don't  look  as 
if  you  'd  sowed  a  seed  sence  nobody  knows 
when.  Where  's  your  pinies  ?  " 


198          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

Sophy  turned  toward  the  high  board-fence 
that  ran  from  the  exact  middle  of  the  house 
down  through  the  garden. 

"  Over  there,"  she  said. 

"  Over  where  ?  " 

"  In  her  part." 

"  Her  part  o'  the  place  ?  What  you  been  an? 
cut  it  up  this  way  for  ?  " 

If  Gardener  Jim  had  ever  heard  of  the  feud 
that  separated  the  two  sisters  he  had  apparently 
forgotten  it,  and  Sophy,  knowing  his  reputed 
state,  felt  no  surprise. 

"  She  lives  in  t'other  part  o'  the  house,"  she 
vouchsafed  cautiously. 

"  Well,"  he  grumbled,  "  that's  no  reason,  as  I 
see,  why  you  should  ha'  gone  an'  sliced  up  the 
gardin."  He  gave  one  more  estimating  look  at 
the  forlorn  waste.  "Well,  I'll  be  over  in  the 
mornin'." 

"  You  needn't,"  Sophy  called  after  him.  "  I 
don't  want  any  gardenin'  done,"  she  cried  the 
louder;  but  Jim  paid  no  attention. 

He  was  at  the  other  gate  now,  leading  into 
Eliza's  grounds,  and  there  he  found  Eliza  wait 
ing  for  him.  She  looked  older  than  her  sister. 
She  was  thinner,  her  eyes  were  sharp,  and  her 
chin  was  square  and  firm. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

Jim  hardly  seemed  to  see  her. 


GARDENER  JIM  199 

"  Where 's  your  pinies  ?  "  he  asked. 

Eliza  resolutely  refrained  from  looking  at  the 
grassy  plot  where  they  sat  in  their  neglected 
state. 

"  I  dunno  's  they  're  comin'  up  this  year,"  she 
returned  speciously. 

"  Yes,  they  be,  too,"  said  Jim,  with  vigor.  He 
had  gone  straight  over  to  the  spot  where  the 
juicy  red-brown  stalks  were  pushing  up  among 
the  grass.  "  Well,  if  I  don't  git  round  this  fall 
an'  feed  up  them  pinies  I  sha'n't  have  a  wink  o' 
sleep  all  winter." 

Eliza  had  followed  him,  and  now  she  stood  re 
garding  the  peonies  absently  and  with  almost  a 
wistful  curiosity,  as  if  they  recalled  something 
she  had  long  forgotten  to  enjoy. 

"I  ain't  done  much  in  the  gardin  for  a  good 
many  year,"  she  said.  "  I  got  kinder  stiff,  an' 
then  I  give  it  up.  It's  too  late  to  do  anything  to 
'em  now,  I  s'pose  ?" 

"  No,  it  ain't  neither,"  said  Jim.  "  I  '11  be  round 
to-morrer  an'  git  the  grass  out  an'  put  suthin' 
on  to  make  'em  grow.  Trouble  is,  't  ain't  so  easy 
to  do  it  in  spring  as  'tis  in  the  fall,  them  stalks 
are  so  brittle.  Don't  you  touch  'em,  now.  I  '11  see 
to  'em  myself." 

Eliza  followed  him  to  the  gate.  She  was  curi 
ous,  and  yet  she  hardly  knew  how  to  put  her 
question  with  the  indifference  she  sought.  As 


200          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

he  was  taking  up  his  spade,  she  found  the 
words :  — • 

"  What's  started  you  up  to  come  here  arter  so 
many  years  V  " 

His  eyes  dropped.  The  shaggy  brows  met  over 
them  in  a  defense. 

"  I  kinder  thought  I  would,"  said  he.  Then 
he  went  soberly  back  to  his  own  house. 

Jim  had  no  garden.  Years  ago,  when  his  wife 
had  left  him,  to  run  away  with  another  man,  he 
had  tried  to  wipe  out  every  sign  of  his  life  with 
her.  It  was  in  the  early  spring  of  the  year  when 
it  happened,  and  the  first  thing  he  did,  after  he 
came  back  from  the  field  and  found  her  letter, 
was  to  drive  the  oxen  into  the  home-plot  and 
plough  up  the  garden  she  had  loved.  The  next 
day  he  had  harrowed  it  and  sown  it  down  to 
grass,  and  then  had  taken  to  his  bed,  where  the 
neighbors  found  him,  and,  one  and  another, 
nursed  him  through  his  fever.  When  he  got  up 
again,  he  was  not  entirely  the  same,  but  he  went 
about  his  work,  making  shoes  in  the  winter  and 
in  summer  going  from  house  to  house  to  tend 
the  gardens.  At  first  the  neighbors  had  depre 
cated  his  spending  so  much  unrewarded  time,  or 
even  forcing  them  to  resuscitate  old  gardens 
against  their  will;  but  they  had  been  obliged  to 
yield.  He  continued  his  task  with  a  gentle  per 
sistency,  and  the  little  town  became  resplendent 


GAKDENER  JIM  201 

in  gardens  —  great  tangles  of  cherished  growth, 
or  little  thrifty  squares  like  patchwork  quilts. 
Jim  was  not  particular  as  to  color  and  effect.  He 
was  only  determined  that  every  plant  should 
prosper.  Only  the  Miller  sisters  he  had  neglected 
until  to-day,  and  nobody  knew  whether  he  re 
membered  that  it  was  at  their  house  the  man  had 
stayed,  charming  hearts,  before  he  went  away 
again  upon  his  travels,  taking  the  prettiest  woman 
of  all  with  him,  or  whether  it  was  merely  con 
nected  with  a  vague  discomfort  in  his  mind. 

To-night  Jim  went  into  his  kitchen  and  cooked 
his  supper  with  all  a  woman's  deftness.  His 
kitchen  was  always  clean,  though,  to  the  end  of 
keeping  it  so,  he  had  discarded  one  thing  or  an 
other,  not  imperatively  needed.  One  day  he  had 
made  a  collection  of  articles  only  used  in  a  less 
primitive  housekeeping,  from  nutmeg-grater  to 
fluting-iron,  and  tossed  them  out  of  the  window 
into  a  corner  of  the  yard.  There  they  stayed, 
while  he  added  to  them  a  footstool,  a  crib,  and 
a  mixed  list  of  superfluities  ;  then  some  of 
the  poorer  inhabitants  of  the  town,  known  as 
"  Frenchies,"  discovered  that  such  treasure  was 
there,  and  grew  into  the  habit  of  stealing  into 
the  yard  twice  a  week  or  so  and,  unmolested, 
taking  away  the  plunder. 

To-night  Jim  determined  to  go  to  bed  early. 
He  had  more  to  do  next  day  than  could  pos- 


202          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

sibly  be  done.  As  he  sat  on  the  front  steps,  hav 
ing  his  after-supper  smoke,  he  heard  the  beat 
of  hoofs,  and  looked  up  to  see  Wilfred  whirling 
by.  Lily  Marshall  sat  beside  him,  all  color  and 
radiance,  in  her  youthful  bloom.  As  "Wilfred 
looked  over  at  him,  with  a  nod,  Jim  threw  out 
his  arm  in  a  wild  beckoning. 

"  Here !  "  he  called.  "  Here,  you  stop  a  min 
ute!" 

Wilfred  drew  up  at  the  gate,  and  Jim  hur 
ried  down  to  them. 

"  Which  way  you  goin'  ? "  he  called,  while 
Lily  looked  at  him  curiously  and  Wilfred  red 
dened  with  shame.  He  was  sorry  that  this  new 
girl  come  into  town  must  see  for  herself  how 
queer  his  uncle  was. 

"  Oh,  'most  anywheres!  "  he  answered  bluffly. 
"  We  're  just  takin'  a  ride." 

"Well,  you  go  down  over  Alewife  Bridge, 
then,  an'  cast  a  look  into  Annie  Darling's  gardin. 
She  's  gone  away  an'  left  it  as  neat  as  wax,  an' 
that  gate  o'  hern  swings  open  sometimes  an' 
them  'tarnal  ducks  '11  git  in.  You  wait  a  minute. 
I  '11  give  ye  a  mite  o'  wire  I  kep'  to  twist 
round  the  gate."  He  sought  absorbedly  in  his 
pocket  and  pulled  out  a  little  coil.  "  There ! " 
said  he,  "that's  the  talk." 

Wilfred  accepted  the  wire  in  silence,  and 
drove  along. 


GARDENER  JIM  203 

"  Who 's  Annie  Darling  V  "  asked  Lily  with 
innocence. 

She  had  not  been  long  in  the  town  without 
hearing  that  Wilfred  had  been  "  going  "  with 
Annie  Darling  before  his  sudden  invitation  to 
her,  that  night  after  prayer-meeting,  "May  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  home  ?  "  Wil 
fred  himself  could  not  have  told  why  he  asked 
that  question  when  Annie,  he  knew,  was  only  a 
pace  behind.  The  one  thing  he  could  remember 
was  that,  when  he  saw  Lily  coming,  he  realized 
that  he  had  never  in  his  life  known  there  were 
cheeks  so  red  and  eyes  so  dark. 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  asked  Lily,  again,  tightening 
her  veil.  It  had  been  blowing  against  his  cheek. 

"  Annie  Darling  ?  "  said  Wilfred,  with  diffi 
culty.  "  Why,  she  's  a  girl  lives  round  here. 
Her  mother  died  last  winter,  and  she  's  been 
tryin'  to  go  out  nursin'.  That 's  where  she  's 
gone  now,  I  guess." 

Lily  Marshall  laughed. 

"  It  's  a  funny  name,"  she  said.  "  I  should 
think  folks  'd  turn  it  round  and  make  it  '  Dar 
ling  Annie.' " 

Wilfred  felt  a  hot  wave  sweeping  over  him, 
the  tide  of  recollection. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  guess  they  have  —  some 
of  'em." 

Lily  gave  him  a  swift  glance,  and  wondered 


204:          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

how  much  she  really  liked  him.  He  seemed 
"  pretty  country  "  sometimes  beside  the  young 
hardware  man  who  was  writing  her  from  the 
"West.  But  she  was  one  to  "  make  things  go," 
and  she  talked  glibly  on  until  they  had  crossed 
Alewife  Bridge  and  Wilfred  drew  up  before  a 
gray  house  with  a  garden  in  front,  marked  out 
in  little  prim  beds  defined  by  pebbles,  and  all 
without  a  weed.  The  iris,  purple  and  yellow, 
seemed  to  be  holding  banners,  it  was  so  gay, 
and  the  lilacs  were  in  bloom.  He  left  the  reins 
in  Lily's  hands,  and  stood  a  moment  at  the  gate, 
glancing  at  the  beds.  Then  he  went  inside,  tried 
the  front  door,  and  shut  a  blind  that  had  failed 
to  catch,  and  after  a  second  frowning  look  at 
all  the  beds,  came  out  and  wired  the  gate. 

"Well,"  said  Lily,  as  they  drove  away,  "ain't 
you  good,  takin'  all  that  trouble  !  " 

Wilfred  frowned  again. 

"  I  don't  like  to  see  things  go  to  wrack  and 
ruin,"  he  remarked. 

«  How  's  she  look  ?  " 

"How's  who  look?" 

"  Annie  Darling." 

"  I  can't  tell  how  folks  look,"  said  Wilfred. 
He  spoke  roughly,  and  she  glanced  at  him  in  a 
calculated  show  of  surprise.  "  Why,  you  've 
seen  her.  She  was  at  the  meetin'  the  night  I 
walked  home  with  you." 


GARDENER  JIM  205 

"  Was  she  ?  "  said  Lily.  "  Well,  I  never  noticed 
the  folks  here  very  much  till  I  begun  to  get 
acquainted." 

But  she  had  brought  back  to  him  a  picture 
he  had  been  forgetting  :  Annie,  standing  in  her 
garden,  sweet,  serious,  and  so  kind.  He  had 
hardly  thought  before  of  Annie's  looks.  People 
never  spoke  of  them  when  they  were  recalling 
her.  She  was  simply  a  person  they  liked  to  live 
beside. 

The  next  morning  Jim  was  at  Mrs.  Marshall's 
before  breakfast  —  almost  before  light,  she 
thought,  because  through  her  last  nap  she  had 
heard  his  hoe  clicking,  and  when  she  went  out, 
there  was  the  track  of  his  wheelbarrow  through 
the  dew,  and  the  liberated  peonies,  free  of  grass, 
stood  each  in  its  rich  dark  circle  of  manure. 

A  little  later  the  Miller  twins  saw  him  com 
ing,  and  Sophy  was  at  the  door  awaiting  him. 

"  Don't  you  want  a  cup  o'  tea  ?  "  she  asked. 

Sophy  looked  quite  eager.  It  seemed  to  her 
that,  with  the  garden  resurrected,  something  was 
going  to  happen.  Jim  shook  his  head. 

"  I  '11  dig  round  them  rose-bushes,"  said  he. 
"  Then  I  '11  go  an'  git  some  dressin'." 

"  I  '11  pay  for  it,"  said  Sophy.  "  You  sha'n't 
have  that  to  do." 

"  It 's  no  consequence,"  returned  Jim  indif 
ferently.  "  I  can  git  all  I  want  out  o'  Squire's 


206          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

old  yard.  I  pay  him  for  it  in  the  fall,  cobblin'. 
It's  no  great  matter,  anyways." 

Sophy  disappeared  into  the  house,  and  came 
out  again,  hurriedly,  with  a  trowel  in  her  hand. 

"  I  don't  know  but  I  '11  work  a  mite  myself," 
she  said,  "  if  you  was  to  tell  me  where  't  was 
worth  while  to  begin." 

"  Don't  ye  touch  the  spring  things,"  said  Jim 
briefly.  He  was  loosening  the  ground  about  the 
roses,  with  delicacy  and  dispatch.  "  Let  it  be  as 
it  may  with  'em  this  year.  Come  November,  we  '11 
overhaul  'em.  You  might  see  if  you  can  git  some 
o'  the  grass  out  o'  that  monkshood  over  there." 

Sophy,  in  her  sunbonnet,  bent  over  her  task, 
and  for  an  hour  they  worked  absorbedly.  Sud 
denly  she  looked  up,  to  find  herself  alone.  But 
there  were  voices  in  the  other  yard.  He  was 
working  for  Eliza.  But  Eliza  was  not  helping 
him.  She  walked  back  and  forth  —  Sophy  could 
see  her  passing  the  cracks  in  the  high  board- 
fence —  and  once  she  called  to  Jim  in  a  nervous 
voice,  "  I  wisht  you  M  go  away." 

Jim  apparently  did  not  hear.  He  went  on 
freeing  the  peonies. 

"  No  wonder  things  git  pindlin'  under  this  old 
locust-tree,"  Sophy  heard  him  grumble.  "  Throw- 
in'  down  leaves  an'  branches  every  day  in  the 
year.  Half  on  't  's  rotten.  It  ought  to  come 
down." 


GARDENER  JIM  207 

"Well,"  said  Eliza,  "if   it   ought   to   come 
down,  let  it  come.  You  know  where  to  find  the 


axe." 


Sophy,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence,  could 
hardly  bear  the  horror  and  surprise  of  it.  She 
forgot  she  was  "  not  speaking  "  to  her  sister. 

"  O  'Liza ! "  she  cried  piercingly.  "  That  was 
mother's  tree.  She  set  it  out  with  her  own 
hands.  I  dunno  what  she  'd  say." 

There  was  a  moment's  quiet,  and  then  Eliza's 
voice  came  gruffly  :  — 

"  You  let  the  tree  alone." 

But  Jim  had  no  thought  of  touching  it.  He 
was  working  silently  at  his  task.  Sophy  went 
into  the  house,  trembling.  She  had  spoken  first. 
But  it  was  to  save  the  tree. 

The  warm  spring  days  went  on,  and  Annie 
Darling  had  not  come.  Weeds  began  to  de 
vastate  her  garden,  and  Wilfred  used  to  look 
over  the  fence  and  wish  uncle  Jim  would  do 
something.  Once  he  spoke  to  uncle  Jim  about 
it,  in  the  way  everybody  had  of  making  him  re 
sponsible  for  the  floral  well-being  of  the  neigh 
borhood  ;  but  Gardener  Jim  would  hardly  listen. 

"You  'tend  to  it!  you  'tend  to  it!"  he  cried 
testily.  "  I  've  got  all  I  can  do  to  git  them  Miller 
gals'  pieces  into  shape  so  't  they  can  sow  a  few 
seeds." 

But  one   morning  he   sought  out  Wilfred, 


208          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

mending  a  gap  in  his  own  orchard  wall  by  the 
road. 

"Wilfred,"  said  Gardener  Jim,  "have  you 
'tended  to  Annie's  gardin  ?" 

He  had  laid  down  his  hoe  and  put  up  a  foot 
on  a  stone  in  good  position  for  talk. 

Wilfred  dropped  his  crowbar  and  came  for 
ward. 

"  Why,  no,"  said  he,  irritated,  he  hardly  knew 
why,  as  if  by  a  call  to  a  forgotten  task.  "  No 
body  's  asked  me  to  'tend  to  it." 

Jim  stood  for  a  moment  looking  through  the 
tree-spaces,  and  then  his  gaze  came  back  to  his 
nephew,  and  Wilfred,  with  a  start,  realized  that 
he  had  never  before  had  the  chance  to  look  into 
uncle  Jim's  eyes.  Now  he  found  them  direct 
and  rather  stern. 

"Wilfred,"  said  Gardener  Jim,  "  don't  you  be 
a  'tarnal  fool." 

Wilfred  said  nothing,  but  immediately,  he 
could  not  tell  why,  he  seemed  to  be  looking  upon 
a  picture  of  Annie  standing  among  the  flowers 
in  her  little  plain  dress.  His  heart  was  beating 
faster,  and  he  said  to  himself  that,  after  all,  it 
would  be  sort  of  nice  if  Annie  would  come  home. 
Gardener  Jim  was  speaking  laboriously,  as  if  he 
dragged  out  conclusions  he  had  perhaps  reached 
long  ago  and  had  not  yet  compared  with  any 
one. 


GARDENER  JIM  209 

"  There 's  a  time  for  everything.  There 's  a 
time  to  graft  a  tree  an'  a  time  to  cut  it  down. 
'Well,  it 's  your  time  o'  life  to  make  a  'tarnal  fool 
o'  yourself.  Don't  ye  do  it.  If  you  do,  like 's  not 
when  you  're  my  age  you  '11  be  all  soul  alone, 
like  me,  an'  goin'  round  'tendin'  to  other  folks's 
gardins." 

Wilfred  stared  at  him  in  wonder. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  found  himself  saying.  "  I 
might  fix  it,  but  I  guess  't  would  be  kind  o' 
queer." 

Gardener  Jim  screwed  up  his  face  until  his 
eyes  were  quite  eclipsed. 

"  Queer !  "  said  he.  "  Nothin'  's  queer  if  you  go 
ahead  an'  do  it  an'  say  nothin'  to  nobody.  What 
if  they  do  call  ye  crazed  ?  That 's  another  way 
to  make  'em  stan'  from  under  an'  let  ye  go  it. 
There !  I  've  said  my  say.  Ain't  that  your  axe 
over  there  by  the  well  ?  You  take  it  an'  come 
along  o'  me.  I  'd  ha'  brought  mine,  only  I  thought 
mebbe  I  should  n't  need  it  till  to-morrer.  But  I 
guess  I  shall.  I  guess  I  shall." 

Wilfred  followed  him  along  the  road  to  the 
Miller  house,  and  there  they  saw  the  twins. 
Sophy,  obscured  by  a  sun-bonnet,  was  on  her 
knees,  sowing  seeds  in  a  bed  Jim  had  made  for 
her  the  day  before;  but  Eliza  stood  quite  still 
among  the  peonies,  looking  off  down  the  road. 

Gardener  Jim  took  his  way  into  Eliza's  part 


210          COUNTRY  NEIGHBOKS 

of  the  yard.  She  turned  and  looked  at  him  un 
easily,  as  if  she  wondered  what  exactions  he 
might  make  to-day.  Wilfred  thought  her  face 
had  changed  of  late.  There  were  marks  of  agi 
tation  upon  it,  as  if  she  had  been  stirred  by  un 
accustomed  thoughts  and  then  had  tried  to  hide 
them.  Her  eyes  were  troubled. 

Gardener  Jim  walked  over  to  the  tall  fence. 

"  Here,  Wilfred,"  said  he,  "  you  take  your  axe 
an'  knock  off  them  boards.  The  posts  '11  go  too, 
give  'em  a  chance.  They  're  pretty  nigh  rotted 
off." 

Eliza  came  awake. 

"  Don't  you  touch  my  fence !  "  she  called. 
"  Don't  you  so  much  as  lay  a  finger  on  it." 

Wilfred  gave  her  a  compliant  look. 

"  You  can't  do  that,  you  know,"  he  said,  in  an 
undertone,  to  Gardener  Jim.  "  It 's  their  fence. 
They  don't  want  it  down." 

Gardener  Jim  made  no  answer.  He  took  the 
axe  from  Wilfred's  hand  and  dealt  the  fence  a 
stroke,  and  then  another,  and  at  every  one  it 
seemed  as  if  something  fell.  Eliza  strode  over  to 
him,  and,  without  reason,  stood  there.  Sophy  left 
her  seed-sowing  on  the  other  side  and  came  also, 
and  she,  too,  watched  the  boards  falling.  The 
women  were  pale  and  their  eyes  showed  terror, 
whether  at  the  unchained  power  of  the  man  or 
at  the  wonder  of  life,  no  one  could  have  told. 


GARDENER  JIM  211 

"Wilfred  sauntered  away  to  the  old  apple-tree, 
and  began  picking  off  twigs  here  and  there,  to 
drop  them  on  the  grass. 

Gardener  Jim  threw  down  the  axe  at  last  and 
wiped  his  forehead. 

"AVhere  you  want  them  boards  piled?"  he 
asked  Eliza  briefly. 

"  Down  there  by  the  wood-shed."  Her  voice 
trembled.  "  They  '11  make  good  kindlin'." 

Over  the  space  where  two  or  three  sound  posts 
were  standing,  she  spoke  to  her  sister.  There 
was  something  strident  in  her  voice,  as  if  she 
pleaded  for  strength  to  break  the  web  of  years. 

"  You  better  have  some  o'  them  boards." 

"  Mebbe  I  had,"  said  Sophy. 

«  Here,  Wilfred,"  called  Gardener  Jim.  «  You 
pile  them  boards  an'  I  '11  see  if  I  can't  loosen  up 
the  dirt  a  mite  round  this  old  phlox.  Anybody 
must  be  a  'tarnal  fool  to  build  up  a  high  board- 
fence  an'  cut  off  the  sun  from  things  when 
they  're  try  in'  to  grow." 

Sophy  looked  timidly  at  her  sister. 

"  I  s'pose  't  is  foolish  to  try  to  have  anything 
if  you  don't  take  care  on  't,"  she  said. 

Eliza  cleared  her  throat  and  answered  with 
the  same  irrelevance :  — 

"  He 's  fixed  up  the  pinies  real  nice.  See  'f  you 
remember  which  the  white  one  was." 

Sophy  stepped  over  the  dividing  line,  and  the 


212          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

two  sisters  walked  away  to  the  peony  settle 
ment.  Gardener  Jim  touched  Wilfred  on  the 
arm. 

"  You  go  along,"  said  he.  "  I  '11  finish  here. 
You  'tend  to  Annie's  gardin.  I  hove  a  trowel 
over  the  fence  there  this  mornin'.  You  go  an' 
git  up  some  o'  them  weeds." 

"Wilfred  nodded  in  unquestioning  compliance. 
As  he  hesitated  then  for  a  moment,  watching 
the  sisters,  and  wondering  what  they  were  talk 
ing  about,  Eliza  raised  her  hand  and  brushed  a 
leaf  from  Sophy's  shoulder.  Then  they  went  on 
talking,  but  apparently  of  the  garden,  for  they 
pointed  here  and  there  in  a  fervor  of  discovery. 
Wilfred  turned  with  a  rush  and  went  off  to  An 
nie  Darling's. 

He  found  the  trowel  under  the  fence,  as  Gar 
dener  Jim  had  prophesied,  and  he  worked  all 
day,  with  a  brief  nooning  at  home.  The  garden 
was  full  of  voices.  Here  was  a  plant  he  had 
driven  ten  miles  to  get  for  her;  here  were  the 
mint  and  balm  she  loved.  It  seemed  to  him,  as 
the  hours  went  by,  that  he  was  talking  writh  her 
and  telling  her  many  things  —  confessions,  some 
of  them,  and  pleas  for  her  continued  kindliness. 
When  he  had  finished,  all  but  carrying  away  his 
pile  of  weeds,  he  heard  a  voice  at  the  gate.  It 
was  Lily,  under  a  bright  parasol,  her  face  re 
peating  its  bloom. 


GARDENER  JIM  213 

"  "Well,  I  never !  "  she  called.  "  You  goin'  to 
turn  gardener,  same  as  your  uncle  did?" 

Wilfred  took  off  his  hat,  to  feel  the  air,  and 
went  forward  toward  her.  He  was  not  embar 
rassed.  She  seemed  to  him  quite  a  different  per 
son  from  what  she  had  before. 

"  I  've  just  got  it  done,"  said  he,  with  a  per 
fect  simplicity.  "  Don't  it  look  nice  ?  " 

Lily  had  flushed,  and,  he  thought  with  sur 
prise,  she  looked  almost  angry.  But  she  laughed 
with  the  same  gay  note. 

"  Been  doin'  it  for  Annie  Darling  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  For  darling  Annie  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Wilfred,  "I've  been  doin'  it  for 
Annie." 

"Mercy!  how  hot  it  is!"  said  Lily.  "Seems 
if  there  was  n't  a  breath  of  air  anywhere.  I  must 
get  home  and  see  if  I  can  find  me  a  fan." 

She  was  rustling  away,  but  Wilfred  did  not 
look  after  her.  He  was  too  busy. 

When  the  weeds  had  all  been  carried  away, 
he  stood  looking  at  the  orderly  garden  with 
something  like  love  for  it  in  his  heart.  And  then 
the  gate  clicked  and  Annie  came  in  and  up  the 
path.  There  was  a  strange,  wistful  radiance  in 
her  face,  as  if  she  had  chanced  upon  an  un 
dreamed-of  joy.  It  was  like  the  home-coming  of 
a  bride.  Wilfred  strode  over  the  beds  and  put 
his  arms  about  her. 


214          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  O  Annie !  "  he  said.  "  I  'm  glad  you  've 
come ! " 

At  six  o'clock  they  were  still  in  the  garden, 
talking,  though  she  had  opened  the  house,  and 
the  smoke  was  coming  out  of  the  chimney  from 
the  fire  boiling  the  water  for  their  tea.  Gardener 
Jim,  going  home  from  his  work,  came  up  to  the 
fence  and  leaned  on  it,  eying  the  garden  critic- 
ally. 

""Well,  Wilfred,"  said  he,  "you've  done  a 
good  day's  work." 

The  youth  and  maid  came  forward.  His  arm 
was  about  her  waist  and  her  cheeks  were  pink. 

"  How  'd  you  leave  the  twins  ?  "  asked  Wil 
fred. 

Gardener  Jim  looked  off  into  the  road  vista, 
and  shook  all  over,  mirthlessly. 

"I  heerd  'em  say  they  were  goin'  to  have 
flapjacks  for  supper,"  said  he  gravely,  "  an'  fry 
'em  in  Sophy's  part."  His  eyes  came  back  to 
Annie  and  studied  her  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
spoke  abruptly.  "  I  'm  goin'  to  give  you  suthin', 
Annie  —  that  set  o'  flowered  chiny.  It 's  all  there 
is  left  in  the  house  that 's  wuth  anything.  'T  was 
my  mother's,  an'  her  mother's  afore  her,  an'  there 
ain't  a  piece  missin'.  When  you  git  ready  for  it, 
Wilfred  here  he'll  come  round  an'  pack  it  up." 


THE  SILVER  TEA-SET 

ANTN"  BARSTOW  stood  at  the  kitchen  table, 
rubbing  her  silver  tea-set.  The  house  was  poor 
and  old,  but  very  clean,  and  Ann  —  a  thin  little 
eager  body  —  seemed  to  fit  it  perfectly.  Her 
strong  hands  moved  back  and  forth  as  if  she 
were  used  to  work  and  loved  it  for  its  own  sake ; 
but  there  were  other  things  she  loved,  and  the 
days  that  summer  seemed  to  her  fuller  of  life 
and  motion  than  they  had  been  since  she  was 
young.  She  had  lived  alone  in  this  little  clearing, 
backed  by  pine  woods,  for  over  thirty  years,  and 
every  sound  of  sighing  or  falling  branch  was 
familiar  to  her,  with  every  resinous  tang.  Ann 
thought  there  was  no  place  on  earth  so  fitted  for 
a  happy  life  as  a  curving  cross-road  where  peo 
ple  seldom  came;  but  her  content  increased  this 
summer  when  young  Jerry  Hamlin  began  build 
ing  a  large  house  across  the  road,  a  few  rods 
below  her  gate,  to  live  there  with  his  wife. 
When  Ann  heard  the  news,  she  was  vaguely 
agitated  by  it.  For  a  time  it  seemed  as  if  some 
thing  were  about  to  invade  her  calm.  But  as  the 
house  went  up,  she  began  to  find  she  liked  the 
tapping  of  hammers  and  the  sound  of  voices  never 


216          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

addressed  to  her.  When  Jerry  and  his  wife  came 
to  look  at  things,  as  they  did  nearly  every  day, 
and  threw  her  a  hearty  word  or  a  smile,  she  liked 
them,  too,  and  it  came  to  her  that  her  old  age 
was  to  be  the  brighter  for  company. 

To-day  the  house  was  still  and  empty;  she 
missed  the  workmen,  and  polished  the  harder,  to 
take  off  her  mind.  A  heavy  step  was  at  the  door. 
She  knew  at  once  who  it  was  :  Mrs.  John  C. 
Briggs,  walking  slowly  because  her  "  heft  "  was 
great,  and  blooming  with  good- will  all  over  her 
large  face,  framed  in  its  thin  blond  hair. 

"  Come  in,"  called  Ann.  "  Set  right  down.  I 
won't  leave  off  my  work.  I'm  all  over  this  'ere 
polishin'  stuff." 

Mrs.  John  C.  sank  into  a  seat,  and  devoted 
the  first  few  moments  to  breathing. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  I  heard  the  workmen  was 
off  to-day;  so  I  thought  I  'd  poke  in  an'  see  the 
new  house." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ann,  "  they  had  to  wait  for  mor 
tar.  It 's  goin'  to  be  a  nice  pretty  place,  ain't 
it?" 

"  Complete.  Well,  I  should  think  you  'd  be 
rejoiced  to  have  neighbors,  all  alone  as  you  be." 

Ann  smiled. 

"  I  never  see  a  lonesome  minute,"  she  said. 
"  There 's  everything  goin'  on  round  in  these 
woods.  The  birds  an'  fly  in'  things  are  jest  as 


THE  SILVER   TEA-SET          217 

busy  as  the  hand  o'  man,  if  ye  know  how  to 
ketch  'em  at  it.  Still,  I  guess  I  've  got  to  the  time 
o'  life  when  I  shall  kinder  enjoy  neighbors." 

"  Ain't  you  never  afraid  ?  " 

"  I  guess  there 's  nothin'  round  here  that 's 
wuss  'n  myself,"  returned  Ann,  proffering  the 
ancient  witticism  with  a  jocose  certainty  of  its 
worth.  "I  ain't  very  darin',  neither.  Not  much 
like  father,  I  ain't,  nor  what  brother  Will  used 
to  be.  Either  o'  them  'd  face  Old  Nick  an'  give 
him  as  good  as  he  sent." 

"  Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  folks  can't  be  too  near 
for  me.  What  would  you  do  if  you  should  be 
sick  in  the  night  ?  " 

"  I  dunno,"  said  Ann  gayly.  "  Set  down  an' 
suck  my  claws,  I  guess,  an'  wait  till  daylight.  I 
can't  think  o'  nothin'  else."  She  had  finished 
her  polishing  and  set  back  the  silver,  to  eye  it 
with  a  critical  and  delighted  gaze.  Then  she 
washed  her  hands  at  the  sink,  and  brought  out 
a  fine  white  napkin  from  the  highboy,  and  spread 
it  on  a  little  table  between  the  windows.  "  I 
dunno  but  I  'm  dretfui  childish,"  she  said,  "but 
arter  I  've  got  it  all  rubbed  up,  I  keep  it  here  in 
sight,  a  day  or  two,  it  ketches  the  sun  so.  Then 
I  set  it  away  in  the  best-room  cluzzet." 

"  It's  real  handsome,"  said  Mrs.  John  C.  "How 
many  pieces  be  there  ?  This  is  the  whole  on 't, 
as  I  remember  it." 


218          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  Jest  as  you  see  it.  Yes,  'tis  hand  some.  Mother 
set  the  world  by  it." 

"  I  dunno  but  I  'd  ruther  have  the  wuth  on  't," 
said  Mrs.  John  C.,  as  she  had  said  many  times 
before. 

""Well,"  agreed  Ann,  "I  dunno  but  father 
would.  He  wa'n't  doin'  very  well  that  year.  I  was 
a  little  mite  of  a  thing  then,  an'  I  remember  it  all 
as  if  't  wa'n't  but  yesterday.  Father  come  in,  an' 
he  says:  '  Well,  I  guess  I  've  saved  the  judge  a 
pretty  good  smash-up.  That  span  o'  colts  run  away 
down  the  river  road.'  '  Who 's  in  the  carriage  ? ' 
says  mother.  '  He  drivin'  himself  ? '  '  No,'  says 
father.  '  He  'd  jest  lifted  Annie  in,  an'  there  was 
a  paper  blew  along  the  road,  an'  they  started.' 
'Annie  ?'  says  mother,  'that  little  mite?  He 
don't  deserve  to  have  a  child.  Why,  father,'  says 
she,  lookin'  up  over  her  glasses,  —  mother  had 
near-sighted  eyes,  —  '  your  clo's  are  all  tore  off 
o'  you,  an'  there 's  your  hand  all  bleedinV  Father 
begun  to  wash  himself  up  at  the  sink,  an'  while 
he  stood  there,  in  walked  the  judge.  He  was 
white  as  a  cloth.  *  Barstow,'  says  he, '  you  name 
anything  you  want  that 's  in  my  power  to  git  ye, 
an'  you  shall  have  it.'  'T  was  a  pretty  hard  year 
for  father,  as  I  told  ye,  but  he  never  asked  favors 
from  nobody.  I  can  see  jest  how  he  looked  when 
he  turned  round  an'  answered.  Father  was  a  real 
handsome  man.  '  Much  obleeged,  judge,'  says  he. 


THE  SILVER   TEA-SET         219 

'  I  don't  want  nothin'  I  can't  git  for  myself.'  The 
judge  looked  kinder  hurt,  but  he  turned  to  mother. 
'  Mis'  Barstow,'  says  he, '  can't  you  think  o'  some 
kind  of  a  keepsake  you  'd  like  ?  '  Mother  spoke 
up  as  quick  as  a  wink.  '  I  want  a  little  mite  of  a 
silver  pitcher  for  cream,'  says  she.  '  I  see  one 
when  I  was  a  little  girl.'  '  You  shall  have  it,'  says 
the  judge ;  an'  'twa'n't  a  week  afore  this  set  come, 
all  marked  complete.  I  never  see  anybody  quite 
so  tickled  as  mother  was ;  an'  father  he  kinder 
laughed.  He  could  n't  help  it,  to  think  how  she 
got  ahead  of  him." 

"  Well,"  said  the  visitor  again,  "it's  as  hand 
some  as  ever  I  see."  She  got  slowly  on  her  feet. 
"  There !  I  guess  I  must  be  movin'  along.  We  're 
goin'  up  to  the  street  right  arter  dinner,  an'  I 
must  have  it  early.  Don't  you  want  to  send  ?  " 

u  I  'd  like  some  molasses." 

"  Well,  we  '11  drive  this  way  an'  call  an'  git  the 
jug.  Come  over  an'  see  us,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will.  You  come  again." 

When  she  was  gone,  Ann,  under  the  sugges 
tion  of  an  early  dinner,  set  about  getting  her 
own.  She  had  some  calf's  head  from  the  day 
before,  and  she  warmed  it  up  with  herbs.  The 
kitchen  smelled  delightfully,  and  as  she  set  out 
the  food  on  her  bare  table,  always  scoured  white 
to  save  the  use  of  a  cloth,  she  felt  the  richness 
of  her  own  comfortable  life.  She  ate  peacefully, 


220          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

sitting  there  in  the  sun  and  watching  her  shin 
ing  silver,  and  just  as  she  was  finishing  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Walk  right  in,"  called  Ann;  but  as  nobody 
responded,  she  got  up  and  opened  the  door  her 
self.  A  young  man  stood  on  the  broad  stone, 
shabby,  dust-covered,  and  with  a  tired  face.  The 
face  was  sullen,  too.  He  looked  as  if  life  had 
been  uncivil  to  him  and  he  hated  it.  Ann  felt  a 
little  shock,  like  a  quicker  heart-beat.  It  was  in 
some  subtle  way  like  the  face  of  her  brother 
Will,  who  had  died  in  his  reckless  youth. 

"  Gi'  me  a  bite  o'  suthin'  to  eat,"  he  said,  as  if 
it  were  a  formula  he  had  often  used.  "  I  ain't 
had  a  meal  for  a  week." 

"Massy  sakes!  yes,"  said  Ann.  "Come  right 
in.  Here,  you  set  there,  an'  I'll  warm  it  up  a 
mite.  I  did  n't  have  no  potaters  to-day,  —  I  was 
in  a  kind  of  a  hurry,  —  but  I  guess  you  can 
make  out  with  bread." 

He  took  the  chair  and  watched  her  while  she 
set  on  the  spider  again  and  warmed  her  savory 
dish.  Ann  filled  the  kettle  at  the  same  time.  She 
judged  that  he  might  like  a  cup  of  tea,  and  told 
herself  she  would  sit  down  and  take  it  with  him. 
But  when  the  food  was  before  him,  he  addressed 
himself  to  it,  tacitly  rejecting  all  her  attempts 
to  whip  up  conversation. 

"  You  travelin'  far  ? "  asked  Ann,  over  her 


THE  SILVER   TEA-SET          221 

own  cup  of  tea,  when  she  had  skimmed  the  top 
of  the  milk  for  him. 

"  Not  very." 

He  frowned  a  little,  and  bent  to  his  occupa 
tion.  His  hunger  bore  out  what  he  had  said.  He 
cleared  the  dishes  and  drained  the  teapot.  Then 
he  rose,  took  his  hat,  and,  without  a  look  at  Ann, 
jerked  out  a  "  much  obliged,"  and  was  gone. 

"Well,"  said  Ann,  smiling  to  herself  ruefully, 
thinking  of  to-morrow's  dinner, "  talk  about  folks 
that  eat  an'  run !  " 

But,  washing  the  dishes  and  trying  meantime 
to  plan  her  happy  afternoon,  she  could  not  put 
away  the  memory  of  her  brother's  eyes  and 
one  tumbling  lock  of  hair;  whispers  from  the 
past  were  clamorous  at  her  ear.  Presently  there 
was  the  sound  of  wheels,  and  Mrs.  John  C., 
perched  beside  her  meagre  husband,  called  from 
the  door:  — 

"  Here  wre  be,  Ann.  Where 's  your  jug?  What 
if  you  should  clap  on  your  bunnit  an'  ride  along 
to  the  street  ?  " 

She  spoke  cordially,  judging  that  on  such  a 
spring  day  everybody  was  better  out  of  the 
woods  and  upon  the  highway. 

"  No,"  said  Ann.  "I  got  too  much  to  do.  I  'm 
goin'  into  the  pines  arter  some  goldthread  an' 
sarsapariP.  'Most  time  for  spring  bitters.  But 
I  'm  obleeged  to  ye  for  takin'  the  jug." 


222          COUNTKY  NEIGHBOES 

Half  an  hour  later  Ann  closed  the  door  behind 
her  and,  with  a  little  basket  on  her  arm  and  a 
kitchen  knife  to  dig  with,  wandered  away  to  her 
dear  retreat.  There  she  worked  less  than  she 
had  expected,  the  sunshine  was  so  beguiling. 
She  found  many  spring  treasures,  the  sort  she 
came  upon  year  after  year,  and  always  with  the 
same  delighted  wonder.  A  new  leaf  or  a  budding 
plant  was  enough  to  send  Ann  off  into  vistas  of 
quiet  joy.  Spring  clouds  were  thick,  when  she 
walked  home,  in  a  tumultuous  white  flock,  and 
she  liked  them  as  well  as  the  blue  they  covered. 
The  earth  was  very  satisfying  to  Ann.  The  air 
had  made  her  hungry,  and  with  a  smile  at  her 
own  haste,  she  drew  out  her  little  table  and 
began  to  set  it. 

Suddenly  she  stopped,  as  if  a  hand  had  grasped 
her  heart.  The  room  was  different.  A  spot  of 
brightness  had  gone  out  of  it.  The  silver  tea-set 
was  not  there.  She  hurried  into  the  sitting-room, 
wild  with  hope  that  she  might  have  set  it  away; 
but  the  place  was  empty.  Ann  went  back  into 
the  kitchen,  and  sank  down  because  her  knees 
refused  to  hold  her.  Not  once  did  she  think  of 
the  value  of  what  she  had  lost,  but  only  as  it 
linked  the  past  to  her  own  solitary  days.  The 
tea-set  had  been  a  kind  of  household  deity,  the 
memorial  of  her  father's  courage  and  her  mo 
ther's  happiness,  a  brighter  sun  of  life  than  any 


THE  SILVEK  TEA-SET          223 

that  could  rise  again.  She  sat  there  still;  her 
heart  beat  heavily. 

"Ann!"  It  was  Mrs.  John  C.'s  voice  from 
the  wagon.  "  Come  git  your  jug." 

Ann  rose  and  went  weakly  out. 

"  There  't  is  in  the  back  o'  the  wagon,"  said 
Mrs.  John  C.  "  John  'd  git  out,  but  the  colt 's 
possessed  to  start,  an'  I  don't  like  to  be  left  with 
the  reins.  Mercy,  Ann !  what 's  the  matter  o'  you? 
You  feel  sick?" 

Ann  had  dragged  out  the  heavy  jug,  but  there 
was  no  strength  in  her  lean  arms,  and  she  swayed 
almost  to  the  ground. 

"  No,"  she  said,  in  a  dull  quiet,  "  I  ain't  sick ; 
my  silver  tea-set 's  gone." 

"  Gone !  gone  where  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Ann,  in  the  same  despair 
ing  way,  "  unless  somebody  's  stole  it." 

"  John,  do  you  hear  that  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  John  C., 
in  high  excitement.  "  That  silver  tea-set 's  gone. 
It 's  the  one  Ann  sets  her  life  by,  an'  it 's  wuth 
I  dunno  what.  Can't  you  do  suthin'  ?  " 

John  C.  looked  about  him  with  a  vague 
solemnity. 

"  Anybody  could  git  into  these  woods,"  he  said, 
"  an'  you  'd  have  hard  work  to  find  out  where." 

"  Hard  work !  "  repeated  Mrs.  John  C.,  in  ex 
treme  scorn.  "  I  guess  't  '11  be  hard  work,  but 
so  's  a  good  many  things.  Don't  set  there  talkin'. 


224          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

Don't  you  worry,  Ann !  We  '11  stir  up  the  neigh 
bors,  an'  'f  your  tea-set's  anywheres  above 
ground,  we  '11  have  it  back,  or  I  '11  miss  my  guess. 
Come,  John,  come.  Le'  's  git  along." 

Power  and  vengeance  breathed  from  all  her 
portly  frame,  and  so  they  drove  away,  she  even, 
as  Ann  saw,  in  her  dull  bewilderment,  putting 
out  a  hand  to  shake  the  whip  in  its  socket,  and 
John  C.  holding  in  the  plunging  colt. 

Ann  wearily  tugged  in  the  molasses-jug  and 
put  it  in  its  place.  Then  she  sat  down  by  the 
window,  trembling,  not  to  think  over  what  had 
happened,  but  to  bear  her  loss  as  she  might. 
From  the  first  moment  of  discovering  it,  she  had 
had  no  hope.  Tragic  things  of  this  sort  were 
strangers  to  her  simple  life,  and  now  that  one  had 
come,  she  knew  no  depth  of  experience  to  draw 
from.  Sickness  she  could  bear,  or  death  if  it 
should  come,  because  they  were  factors  of  the 
common  lot ;  but  it  had  never  occurred  to  her 
that  so  resplendent  a  thing  as  a  silver  tea-set 
could  belong  to  any  one  and  then  be  reft  away. 

The  dusk  gathered  and  thickened.  The  frogs 
were  peeping  down  by  the  old  willows,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  the  melancholy  of  early 
spring  lay  cold  upon  her  heart.  It  was  perhaps 
eight  o'clock  when  she  heard  a  hand  at  the  door. 

"Ann!"  called  Mrs.  John  C.  "Ann,  you 
there?" 


THE  SILVER  TEA-SET          225 

Ann  rose  heavily. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said.  "  I  '11  light  up." 

When  she  had  set  the  lamp  on  the  table  and 
lighted  it  with  a  trembling  hand,  Mrs.  John  C., 
waiting  to  find  a  chair,  gazed  at  her  in  wonder. 
Ann  looked  stricken.  Her  hair  was  disordered, 
her  e}res  were  sunken,  and  suddenly  she  was  old. 
Mrs.  John  C.  spoke  gently,  moved  out  of  her 
energetic  sweep  and  swing. 

"  Law,  Ann !  don't  you  take  it  so  terrible  hard. 
'T  ain't  wuth  it,  even  a  tea-set  ain't.  What  should 
you  say  if  I  told  you  they'd  got  onto  the  track 
on't?" 

"No,"  said  Ann,  out  of  her  dull  endurance, 
"  they  won't  ever  do  that.  When  a  thing  o'  that 
kind 's  gone,  it  's  gone.  Don't  do  no  good  to 
make  a  towse  about  it.  I  sha'n't  ever  see  it 
again." 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  'd  make  a  towse,"  said  Mrs. 
John  C.,  robustly.  "  If  you  won't,  I  will  for  ye. 
Mebbe  you're  nearer  gittin'  it  back  than  you 
think.  I  told  John  I  wa'n't  goin'  to  wait  a  min 
ute.  I  run  over  to  tell  ye."  Then  Ann  listened, 
though  as  one  still  without  hope.  "  Sam  Mer 
rill  'd  been  down  the  gully  road,  fencin',"  con 
tinued  Mrs.  John  C.,  now  with  an  exuberant 
relish  of  her  news,  "  an'  when  he  was  comin' 
home  along  by  the  old  Pelton  house  he  sees  a 
kind  of  a  tramp  goin'  in  there.  He  was  young- 


226          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

ish,  Sam  said,  an'  he  had  on  a  light  coat,  an'  the 
pockets  on 't  bulged.  What  do  you  think  o'  that? 
Minute  he  said  it,  I  says  to  myself,  '  That 's 
Ann's  tea-set.' ' 

All  at  once  there  came  a  picture  before  Ann's 
eyes :  not  the  tramp  with  the  bulging  pockets, 
as  he  sought  the  hospitality  of  the  ruined  house, 
but  the  same  tramp  as  he  stood  on  her  door- 
stone  and  asked  for  food.  The  whole  event  was 
clear  to  her.  She  called  herself  a  fool  for  not 
having  known  at  once. 

"Sam  say  anything  more  about  him?"  she 
asked  eagerly.  "  "What  he  had  on  ?  " 

"  No.  Come  to  think  of  it,  yes,  he  did,  too. 
Said  he  had  on  an  old  straw  hat  with  a  red  an' 
blue  band  round  it.  Sam  said  he  noticed  that 
because  't  was  so  early  for  a  straw.  Said  it  looked 
more  like  a  child's  hat.  Guessed  he  'd  picked  it 
up  some'r's." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ann,  out  of  her  daze,  "  so't  did." 
Yet  she  was  not  thinking  of  the  hat  as  it  might 
identify  a  thief,  but  of  the  brows  under  it,  with 
a  look  she  used  to  know. 

"  Why,  Ann  Barstow ! "  Mrs.  John  C.  was 
saying,  "  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  see  him 
yourself  ?  " 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  Ann  as  if  it  were  not 
the  young  tramp  they  were  recalling,  but  her 
brother  himself. 


THE   SILVER   TEA-SET          227 

"  No,"  she  said  defiantly.  "  I  jest  put  in  a 
word,  that 's  all." 

Mrs.  John  C.  swept  on  in  the  strain  of  her 
hopeful  heralding. 

"  So,  soon  as  Sam  told  that  —  't  wa'n't  more  'n 
half  an  hour  ago  —  I  says  to  him,  *  You  go  an' 
stir  up  some  o'  the  boys,  an'  'long  towards  ten 
o'clock  you  jest  surround  the  old  Pelton  house 
an'  git  him,  tea-set  an'  all.  Stan's  to  reason,' 
says  I,  '  it 's  an  old  deserted  house,  an'  he 's  go- 
in'  to  git  part  of  a  night's  rest  there.  'Fore 
mornin'  he  '11  be  up  an'  put  for  some  banjin'-place 
he 's  got,  an'  then  that  silver  '11  be  melted  up  an' 
you  never  '11  see  hide  nor  hair  on't  again.'  One 
spell  I  thought  mebbe  he  was  goin'  to  build  up 
a  fire  in  the  old  fireplace  an'  melt  it  right  then 
an'  there ;  but  John  says  't  ain't  likely.  Says  you 
need  more  heat  'n  that  to  melt  up  silver."  She 
paused  for  want  of  breath. 

"  Be  they  goin'  to  do  it  ?  "  asked  Ann  faintly. 

"Who?" 

"  Them  young  folks.  Be  they  goin'  to  sur 
round  him  an'  take  him  up  ?" 

"  Well,  I  guess  they  be,"  said  Mrs.  John  C., 
rising  and  drawing  her  shawl  about  her.  "  They 
will  if  they  Ve  got  any  seem  to  'em.  So  I  told 
'em  when  they  was  talkin'  on 't  over." 

Ann  followed  her  to  the  door. 

"  If  they  should  come  acrost  the  tea-set,"  she 


228          COUNTKY  NEIGHBOES 

hesitated,  "  mebbe  they  'd  git  hold  o'  that  an'  let 
him  go." 

Mrs.  John  C.  gave  her  a  reassuring  touch 
with  her  capable  right  hand. 

"  Don't  you  worry,"  she  said,  out  of  cheerful 
experience  of  her  own  enterprise.  "  I  see  to  that. 
I  says  to  John  C.,  '  He  ain't  a-goin'  to  slip  out 
an'  git  away.  It 's  goin'  to  be  done  accordin'  to 
law  an'  order,'  I  says.  '  I  sha'n't  sleep  a  wink  till 
that  scoundrel 's  landed  in  jail.'  So  I  says  to 
John  C.,  '  You  harness  up  the  colt  an'  ride  over 
an'  git  the  sheriff,  an'  when  the  boys  pitch 
onto  him,  have  him  ready  to  clap  the  handcuffs 
on.'  Don't  you  worry,  Ann.  You'll  see  your 
tea-set  yit." 

Ann  stood  at  the  door,  hearing  her  walking 
heavily  away,  and  a  gentle  rage  possessed  her 
when  she  noted  how  broad  her  back  looked,  how 
capable  of  carrying  burdens  to  their  goal.  She 
was  deeply  attached  to  Mrs.  John  C.,  but  she 
realized  how  impossible  it  was  to  block  her  pur 
poses.  Hitherto  they  had  all  seemed  beneficent 
ones;  but  now  Ann  felt  something  of  the  in 
dignant  protest  that  always  surged  in  her  when 
she  saw  a  sleek  and  prosperous  cat  baiting  a 
mouse.  She  went  in  and  sat  down  again,  with 
a  double  anxiety  upon  her.  It  was  not  only  her 
tea-set  she  lamented,  but  the  hardness  of  life 
wherein  any  creature  should  be  worried  down 


THE  SILVER   TEA-SET          229 

and  caught.  And  she  remembered,  as  she  did 
not  in  loyalty  allow  herself  to  remember  often, 
that  her  brother  also  had  been  wild. 

Suddenly  something  roused  her.  It  was  not  so 
much  a  thought  as  a  touch  upon  her  heart,  and 
she  sat  up  straight,  as  full  of  fire  and  purpose 
as  Mrs.  John  C.  herself,  only  it  was  purpose  of 
another  kind.  Mrs.  John  C.  had  the  force  of 
weight,  and  in  Ann  there  were  tense  fibres 
of  youth,  not  yet  done  thrilling.  She  threw  her 
little  shaw^l  over  her  head  and  hurried  out  of  the 
house.  For  an  instant  she  paused,  with  a  new 
impulse  of  caution,  to  lock  the  door.  Then  with 
a  scorn  of  her  present  possessions,  her  one  treas 
ure  gone,  she  latched  it  only,  and  took  the  wood- 
path  to  the  swamp.  Ann  walked  with  a  trained 
delicacy  and  caution  suited  to  the  woods.  The 
thrilling  of  the  frogs  grew  louder,  and  shortly 
she  was  at  the  old  lightning  oak  that  served  her 
for  a  landmark.  Before  her  lay  the  boggy  place 
where  she  came  in  all  warm  seasons  of  the  year 
for  one  thing  or  another:  the  wild  marsh-mari 
gold,  —  good  for  greens,  —  thoroughwort,  and 
the  root  of  the  sweet-flag.  P'ison  flag  grew 
here,  too,  the  sturdy,  delicate  iris  that  made  the 
swamp  so  gay. 

Ann  stayed  a  moment  for  breath.  Haste  had 
driven  the  blood  to  her  face,  and  the  cool  spring 
air  seemed  to  generate  in  her  the  heat  of  sum- 


230          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

mer.  Until  now  she  had  loved  the  sound  of  the 
frogs,  piping  in  the  spring,  but  in  the  irritation 
of  her  trouble  she  spoke  aloud  to  them:  "Can't 
anybody  be  allowed  to  hear  themselves  think  ?  " 
The  haste  of  her  errand  tapped  her  again  upon 
the  arm,  and  she  picked  up  the  board  which  was 
one  of  the  tools  of  her  trade,  left  always  at  the 
foot  of  the  lightning  oak,  and  with  it  skirted 
the  swamp  to  the  east  where  the  tussocks  were 
large.  Then,  throwing  her  board  before  her  from 
one  foothold  to  another,  she  crossed  the  swamp. 
Twice  she  had  fallen,  and  her  dress  was  wet. 
She  was  muddy  to  the  knees,  but  she  wrung  out 
her  heavy  skirts  and  ran  along  the  path  she 
knew  to  the  door  of  the  deserted  house. 

Ann  thought  she  had  never  seen  a  place  so 
still.  It  had  the  desolation  of  a  spot  where  life 
has  been  and  where  it  is  no  more.  She  listened 
a  moment,  her  eyes  searching  the  dark  bulk  of 
the  house,  her  hand  upon  her  racing  heart.  She 
smelled  smoke.  Then  she  called :  — 

"  You  there?  I  know  ye  be.  Open  the  door." 

There  was  no  sound.  She  tried  the  door,  and, 
finding  it  bolted,  shook  the  handle  with  all  the 
force  of  her  strong  arms. 

"  You  let  me  in,"  she  called  again.  "  I  've  got 
suthin'  to  say  to  ye.  It 's  suthin'  you  '11  be  glad 
to  hear." 

But  after  she  had  waited  a  moment  in  the 


THE  SILVER   TEA-SET          231 

taunting  stillness,  she  withdrew  a  little,  that 
her  voice  should  reach  him,  wherever  he  might 
be. 

"  I  know  all  about  it.  You  've  took  my  silver 
tea-set  an'  you've  got  it  in  there  now.  Other 
folks  knows  it,  too,  an'  about  moonrise  they  're 
comin'  here  an*  surround  the  house  an'  make 
you  give  it  up."  She  paused  for  an  eager  breath. 
The  futility  of  the  moment  choked  her.  "  You 
hear  to  me,"  she  called  again,  in  her  strained, 
beseeching  voice.  "  'T  won't  do  ye  no  good  to 
hide,  for  they  know  you  're  there.  An'  't  won't 
do  ye  no  good  to  fight,  for  there 's  a  whole  b'ilin' 
of  'em,  an'  like  's  not  they  've  got  guns.  Now 
when  I  'm  gone  —  I  'm  goin'  right  off  home  now 
—  you  slip  out  the  back  o'  the  house  an'  go  as 
straight  as  you  can  cut,  right  acrost  the  pastur'. 
That  '11  bring  ye  to  a  lane.  You  turn  to  your 
right  an'  f oiler  it,  an'  it  '11  take  ye  onto  the  high 
road.  Then  you  take  that  an'  keep  to  your  left. 
T'  others  '11  come  from  the  right.  An'  if  you  find 
a  good  hidin'-place,  you  better  clap  the  tea-set 
into  it,  under  some  brush  or  suthin',  an'  come 
back  arter  it  some  other  time.  Ye  see,  they  've 
started  up  the  sheriff  an'  I  dunno  what  all.  Mis' 
John  C.  's  puttin'  on 't  through,  an'  mebbe  they  've 
telegraphed  over  the  country  by  this  time.  'T  ain't 
any  small  matter,  takin'  a  silver  tea-set  so.  I  'm 
terrible  worried  about  ye.  There!  Now  I'm 


232          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

goin'.  You  wait  a  minute,  if  ye  don't  want  me 
to  see  ye.  Then  you  can  put." 

But  when  she  had  taken  a  dozen  steps  on  her 
homeward  way,  she  returned  as  hastily.  Her 
voice  broke  again  upon  the  stillness,  with  a  thrill 
in  it  of  renewed  beseeching.  "  Look  here,  you ! 
One  thing  you  do,  fust  thing  arter  you  git  away 
from  here.  You  see  'f  you  can't  find  some  work 
an'  you  do  it."  The  present  experience  seemed 
to  have  fallen  away  from  her.  She  might  have 
been  addressing  the  boy  who  also  had  been  wild 
in  those  years  so  long  ago.  "  You  keep  on  this 
way  an'  you  '11  end  in  jail  an'  I  dunno  but  suthin' 
that 's  wuss.  Mebbe  nobody  won't  ketch  ye  this 
time,  —  you  better  melt  the  tea-set  up  soon  as 
ever  you  can,  —  but  some  time  they  will.  Now 
you  mind  what  I  tell  ye." 

This  time  she  did  turn  away,  and  with  her 
light  and  knowing  step  plunged  into  the  woods. 
Once  there,  as  she  remembered  afterwards,  her 
knees  seemed  to  fail  her,  but  she  went  weakly 
on,  until,  at  a  good  distance  from  the  house,  she 
sat  down  on  a  bank  under  the  sighing  pines  and 
leaned  against  a  tree  to  let  the  cool  air  touch 
her  face.  "  My  suz ! "  she  breathed.  Her  mind 
was  all  a  mingling  of  past  and  present,  but 
chiefly  it  seemed  to  be  invaded  by  a  young  face, 
sullen  sometimes  like  the  tramp's,  and  then  again 
gay  with  laughter. 


THE   SILVER  TEA-SET         233 

When  she  came  to  her  every-day  frame  of 
mind,  the  woods  were  still,  and  to  her  vivid  sen 
sibilities  more  deserted.  She  made  no  doubt  the 
thief  was  gone  in  the  way  she  had  marked  out 
for  him.  Ann  had  a  childlike  sense  that  he  would 
believe  her,  because  she  meant  so  well.  She  took 
her  own  path  soberly  home  again,  not  across  the 
marsh  this  time,  but  half  the  way  by  the  high 
road.  At  one  point  she  caught  the  sound  of 
voices,  subdued  to  the  mysterious  note  of  the 
hour  itself.  She  stepped  over  a  stone  wall  and 
lay  down  in  the  damp  bracken  there,  and  in  a 
moment,  as  she  expected,  the  cautious  steps 
went  by  her  on  their  quest,  a  party  of  eight  or 
ten,  as  she  judged,  raising  her  head  cautiously 
from  her  retreat  to  look  and  listen.  Then  she 
lay  down  again,  chuckling  softly  as  she  did  when 
the  mouse  escaped,  even  though  it  was  to  gnaw 
her  cheese.  And  presently  she  took  the  road, 
and  so  went  home. 

Ann  could  not  go  to  bed  that  night.  It  was 
not  that  she  expected  news,  but  she  had  a  feel 
ing  that  powers  were  abroad  to  shape  and  guide 
things,  and  that,  though  humbly,  she  must  be 
among  them.  Perhaps  it  was  the  excitement  of 
the  time  and  stirring  memories,  but,  for  whatever 
reason,  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  "  folks  "  were  all 
about  her,  strengthening  her  to  the  kindnesses 
and  the  loyalties  of  life.  She  was  not  in  the  habit 


234          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

of  praying;  but  as  she  lay  upon  the  lounge  in 
the  kitchen,  between  waking  and  sleep,  she  kept 
saying  to  some  hidden  power:  "You  look  out 
for  him.  Young  folks  don't  know  half  the  time 
what 's  best  for  'em."  And  toward  morning,  in 
her  confused  state  between  life  and  sleep,  she 
hardly  knew  whether  it  was  her  brother  she 
prayed  for  or  the  unknown  man.  Once  she  heard 
a  quick,  sharp  noise  as  if  a  window  opened.  She 
started  up.  "  Yes,  yes  !  "  she  called,  out  of  her 
dream.  "You  want  me?  I'm  right  here."  But 
no  one  answered,  and  she  settled  again  to  sleep. 
It  was  seven  o'clock  when  she  opened  her 
eyes  to  find  the  kitchen  flooded  with  light.  It 
was  a  brilliant  day,  but  she  was  stiff  and  cold. 
After  she  had  started  her  fire,  she  went  into  the 
bedroom  to  comb  her  hair,  and  glanced  into  the 
little  blurred  mirror  she  sometimes  found  her 
only  company.  The  window  was  wide,  the  fresh 
May  air  blowing  in,  and  there  under  the  window 
on  the  floor  was  her  silver  tea-set.  Ann  sat 
down  before  it  and  gathered  it  into  her  arms 
as  if  it  were  a  child.  The  tears  ran  down  her 
cheeks.  "  To  think,"  she  kept  saying,  "  to  think 
he  fetched  it  back.  Only  to  think  on  't!"  And 
while  she  sat  there,  very  happy  with  the  tea-set 
in  her  lap,  she  heard  a  step  she  knew.  She  came 
swiftly  to  her  feet.  Then  she  put  the  silver  on 
her  bureau  in  a  shining  row,  and  questioned  her 


THE  SILVER   TEA-SET          235 

face  in  the  glass.  The  tears  were  on  it  still,  but 
that  hardly  mattered  on  a  face  that  smiled  so 
hard.  But  she  did  wipe  away  the  drops  with 
her  apron,  and  then  hurried  into  the  kitchen  to 
meet  her  visitor.  Mrs.  John  C.  was  bedraggled 
from  loss  of  sleep,  and  defeat  sat  upon  her  shin 
ing  brow. 

"  Well,  Ann,"  she  said  gloomily,  "  I  ain't  got 
any  news  for  ye.  He  wa'n't  there,  arter  all,  though 
there  'd  been  a  fire  an'  they  found  he  cooked  him 
self  some  eggs.  But  they  're  goin'  to  beat  up  the 
woods  arter  breakfast,  an'  if  he 's  above  ground 
he 's  goin'  to  be  took." 

Ann  could  scarcely  sober  her  smiling  mouth. 

"  You  tell  'em  it 's  all  right,"  she  announced 
jubilantly.  "  Where  do  you  s'pose  I  found  it  ? 
In  my  bedroom,  arter  all." 

Mrs.  John  C.  regarded  her  with  blighting  in 
credulity.  Ann  had  been  guiltily  careless,  and 
yet  she  expressed  no  grief  over  the  trouble  she 
had  made.  It  was  beyond  belief. 

"  Ann  Barstow,"  said  she,  "  you  don't  mean  to 
tell  me  you  had  this  whole  township  up  traipsin' 
the  woods  all  night,  an'  me  without  a  wink  o' 
sleep,  an'  that  tea-set  in  your  bedroom,  arter 
all?" 

Ann  did  flush  guiltily.  Her  eyes  fell. 

"  You  beseech  'em  not  to  think  hard  of  me," 
she  urged.  "  I  never  do  put  it  in  my  bedroom,  — 


236          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

you  know  yourself  them  two  places  I  keep  it  in, 
—  but  there  't  was." 

Mrs.  John  C.  turned  majestically  to  be  gone. 
She  spoke  with  an  emphasis  that  seemed,  even 
to  her,  inadequate. 

"  Well,  Ann  Barstow,  I  should  think  you  was 
losin'  your  mind." 

"  Mebbe  I  be,"  said  Ann,  joyously,  following 
her  to  the  door.  "Mebbe  I  be.  But  there's  my 
tea-set.  I  'm  terrible  pleased." 


THE  OTHER  MRS.  DILL 

MRS.  DILL  and  her  husband,  Myron,  grown 
middle-aged  together,  and  yet,  even  through  the 
attrition  of  the  years,  no  more  according  in  tem 
perament  than  at  the  start,  sat  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  hearth  and  looked  at  each  other,  he  with 
calmness,  from  his  invincible  authority,  and  she 
fluttering  a  little,  yet  making  no  question  but  of 
a  dutiful  concurrence.  She  had  bright  blue  eyes 
behind  gold-rimmed  glasses,  a  thin  face  with  a 
nose  slightly  aquiline,  and  reddish  hair  that  was 
her  cross,  because  it  curled  by  nature  and  she 
constrained  it.  Sometimes,  when  it  kinked  un 
usually,  either  in  moist  weather  or  because  she 
had  forgotten  to  smooth  it,  and  when  the  pupils 
of  her  eyes  enlarged  under  cumulative  excite 
ment,  she  looked  young  and  impetuously  willful ; 
but  the  times  were  rare,  and  perhaps  her  husband 
had  never,  since  their  courting  days,  noted  any 
such  exhilaration.  He  was  a  large,  imperious- 
looking  man,  with  a  cascade  of  silvery  beard 
which  he  affected  to  tolerate  because  the  expen 
diture  of  time  in  shaving  might  be  turned  with 
profit  into  the  channel  of  business  or  of  worship; 
but  his  wife,  noting  how  he  stroked  the  beard 


238          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

at  intervals  of  meditation,  judged  that  he  was 
moved  by  something  like  pride  in  its  luxuriance. 
Then  she  chided  herself  for  the  thought. 

It  was  balmy  spring  weather,  but  they  had 
taken  their  places  at  the  hearthstone  from  old 
habit  when  a  matter  of  importance  had  to  be  con 
sidered.  Their  two  chairs  were  the  seats  of  au 
thority  in  the  domestic  realm. 

Mrs.  Dill  stooped,  took  up  the  turkey-wing, 
and  gave  the  clean  hearth  a  perfunctory  flick. 
Then  she  returned  the  wing  to  its  place  and 
leaned  back  in  her  chair,  gazing  absently  at  the 
shining  andirons. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  Henrietta  Parkman  was 
in  this  mornin',  and  she  told  me  you'd  bought 
the  medder;  but  I  didn't  hardly  believe  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Myron.  He  spoke  in  rather  a  con 
sequential  voice,  and  cleared  his  throat  frequently 
in  the  course  of  talking,  as  if  to  accord  his  organs 
a  good  working  chance.  "  The  deeds  were  passed 
last  week,  and  it 's  bein'  recorded." 

"  What  you  goin'  to  do  with  it  V  " 

"  I  bought  it  because  it  lays  next  to  the  Turn- 
bull  place,  and  when  that  come  into  my  hands 
last  fall,  I  knew  't  was  only  a  matter  o'  time  till 
I  got  the  medder,  too." 

"  Well,  what  you  goin'  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

A  tinge  of  anxiety  was  apparent  in  her  voice, 
a  wistful  suggestiveness,  as  if  she  could  conceive 


THE  OTHER  MRS.  DILL        239 

of  uses  that  would  be  almost  too  fortunate  to  be 
hoped  for.  Myron  hesitated.  It  often  looked  as 
if  he  judged  it  unwise  to  answer  in  any  haste 
questions  concerning  the  domestic  polity,  and 
Mrs.  Dill  was  used  to  these  periods  of  incubation. 
She  had  even  thought  once,  in  a  moment  of  il 
luminative  comparison,  that  her  husband  seemed 
to  submit  a  bill  before  one  branch  of  his  mental 
legislature  before  carrying  it  on  to  the  next. 

"  I  'm  goin'  to  pasture  my  cows  in  it,"  he  re 
sponded.  "  I  shall  buy  in  some  more  stock  this 
spring,  and  I  expect  to  set  up  a  milk-route." 

"  How  under  the  sun  you  goin'  to  manage 
that?"  She  seldom  questioned  her  lawful  head, 
but  the  surprise  of  the  moment  spurred  her  into 
a  query  more  expressive  of  her  own  mood  than 
a  probing  of  his.  "  You  can't  keep  any  more  cows 
'n  you  've  got  now.  The  barn  ain't  big  enough." 

"  The  Turnbull  barn  is.  I  Ve  seen  the  day 
when  there  was  forty  head  o'  cattle  tied  up  there 
from  fall  to  spring." 

"  The  Turnbull  barn 's  twenty  minutes'  walk 
from  here.  You  can't  go  over  there  mornin'  and 
evenin',  milkin'  and  f  eedin'  the  critters.  You  'd 
be  all  the  time  on  the  road." 

"  Yes,"  said  Myron,  "  't  is  a  good  stretch.  So 
I  've  made  up  my  mind  we  'd  move  over  there." 

A  significant  note  had  come  into  his  voice.  It 
indicated  a  complexity  of  understanding:  chiefly 


240          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOKS 

that  she  would  by  nature  resist  what  he  had  to 
say,  and  then  resume  her  customary  acquies 
cence.  But  for  a  moment  she  forgot  that  he  was 
Mr.  Dill,  and  that  she  had  promised  to  obey 
him. 

"  Why,  Myron,"  she  said,  with  a  mild  passion, 
warmed  by  her  incredulity,  "  we  Ve  lived  on  this 
place  thirty  year." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  her  husband.  "I  know  that. 
What  's  the  use  o'  goin'  back  over  the  ground, 
and  tellin'  me  things  I  know  as  well  as  you  do  ? 
What  if  't  is  thirty  year  ?  Time  we  got  into 
better  quarters." 

"  But  they  ain't  better.  Only  it 's  more  work." 

Myron  got  up  and  moved  back  his  chair. 

"I  don't  think  o'  movin'  till  long  about  the 
middle  o'  May,"  he  rejoined.  "  You  can  kinder 
keep  your  mind  on  it  and,  when  you  get  round 
to  your  spring  cleanin',  pick  up  as  you  go.  Some 
things  you  can  fold  right  into  chists,  blankets 
and  winter  clo'es,  and  then  you  won't  have  to 
handle  'em  over  twice.  If  Herman  comes  back 
from  gettin'  the  horse  shod,  you  tell  him  to  take 
an  axe,  and  come  down  where  I  be  in  the  long 
lot,  fencin'.  T  want  him." 

He  paused  for  a  hearty  draught  from  the  dip 
per  at  the  pump,  pulled  his  hat  on  tightly,  and 
went  out  through  the  shed  to  his  forenoon's 
work.  Mrs.  Dill  rose  from  her  seat,  and  stepped 


THE   OTHER  MES.   DILL        241 

quickly  to  the  window  to  watch  him  away.  She 
often  did  it  when  he  had  most  puzzled  her  and 
roused  in  her  a  resistance  which  was  inevitable, 
she  knew  by  long  experience,  but  also,  as  her 
dutiful  nature  agreed,  the  result  in  her  of  an  un 
conquerable  old  Adam  which  had  never  yet  felt 
the  transforming  touch  of  grace.  "When  his  tall, 
powerful  figure  had  disappeared  beyond  the  rise 
at  the  end  of  the  lot,  she  gave  a  great  willful 
sigh,  as  if  she  depended  on  it  to  ease  her  heart, 
put  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  held  it  there, 
pressing  back  the  tears. 

Herman  drove  into  the  yard,  and  she  did  not 
hear  him.  She  went  to  the  fireplace  now,  and 
leaned  her  head  against  the  corner  of  the  man 
tel,  looking  down,  with  a  bitter  stolidity,  at  the 
hearth.  Herman  unharnessed,  and  came  in,  a 
tall  brown-haired  fellow  with  dark  eyes  full  of 
softness,  and'  a  deep  simplicity  of  feeling.  As 
his  foot  struck  the  sill,  his  mother  roused  her 
self,  and  became  at  once  animated  by  a  com 
mon-place  activity.  She  did  not  face  him,  for 
fear  he  should  find  the  tear-marks  on  her  cheeks ; 
but  when  he  had  thrown  his  cap  into  a  chair,  and 
gone  to  the  sink  to  plunge  his  face  in  cold  water, 
and  came  out  dripping,  she  did  steal  a  look  at 
him,  and  at  once  softened  into  a  smiling  pleasure. 
He  was  her  handsome  son  always,  but  to-day  he 
looked  brilliantly  excited;  eager,  also,  as  if  he 


242          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

had  something  to  share  with  her,  and  was  timid 
about  presenting  it. 

"  Mother ! "  said  Herman.  He  was  standing  be 
fore  her  now,  smiling  invitingly,  and  she  smiled 
back  again  and  picked  a  bit  of  lint  from  his  col 
lar  for  the  excuse  of  coming  near  him,  and  prov 
ing  to  herself  her  proud  ownership.  "  I  've  had 
a  letter." 

"From  Annie?" 

He  nodded. 

"What's  she  say? "asked  his  mother.  But 
before  he  could  answer,  she  threw  in  a  caressing 
invitation.  "  You  want  I  should  get  you  a  piece 
o'  gingerbread  and  a  glass  o'  milk?  " 

"No,  I  ain't  hungry.  She  says  she's  kep' 
school  about  long  enough,  and  if  I  'm  goin'  to 
farm  it,  she  '11  farm  it,  too.  I  guess  she  'd  be 
married  the  first  o'  the  summer,  if  we  could  fetch 
it." 

Mrs.  Dill  stepped  over  to  the  hearth  and  sank 
into  her  chair.  It  seemed  as  if  there  were  to  be 
another  family  council.  Her  silence  stirred  him. 

"  I  asked  her,"  he  hastened  to  say.  "  I  coaxed 
her,  mother.  She  ain't  as  forward  as  I  make  it 
out,  the  way  I  've  told  it." 

"  No,"  said  his  mother  absently.  She  was  rest 
ing  her  elbows  on  the  chair-arm,  and,  with  hands 
lightly  clasped,  gazing  thoughtfully  into  space. 
Fine  lines  had  sprung  into  her  forehead,  and  now 


THE  OTHER  MRS.   DILL        243 

she  took  off  her  glasses  and  wiped  them  care 
fully  on  her  apron,  as  if  that  would  help  her  to 
an  inner  vision.  "  No,  I  know  that.  Annie  's  a 
nice  girl.  There's  nothin'  forward  about  Annie. 
But  I  was  only  wonderin'  where  you  could  live. 
This  house  is  terrible  small." 

"  You  know  what  I  thought, "  Herman  re 
minded  her.  He  spoke  impetuously  as  if  begging 
her  to  remember,  and  therefore  throw  the  weight 
of  her  expectation  in  with  his.  "  When  father 
bought  the  Turnbull  place  I  thought,  as  much  as 
ever  I  did  anything  in  my  life,  he  meant  to  make 
it  over  to  me." 

His  mother's  eyes  stayed  persistently  down 
cast.  A  little  flush  rose  to  her  cheeks. 

"  Well,"  she  temporized,  "  you  ain't  goin'  to 
count  your  chickens  before  they're  hatched.  It 's 
a  poor  way.  It  never  leads  to  anything  but  dis 
appointment  in  the  end." 

"Why,  mother,"  said  Herman  warmly,  "you 
thought  so  too.  We  talked  it  over  only  night 
before  last,  and  you  said  you  guessed  father 'd 
put  me  on  to  that  farm." 

"I  said  I  didn't  know  what  he'd  bought  it 
for,  if  't  wa'n't  for  that,"  she  amended.  "  Don't 
you  build  on  anything  I  said.  Don't  you  do  it, 
Hermie." 

Her  son  stood  there  frowning  in  perplexity, 
his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  and  his  feet  apart. 


244          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  But  you  said  so  yourself,  mother,"  he  per 
sisted.  "  I  told  you  how  I  'd  always  helped  father 
out,  long  past  my  majority,  and  never  hinted  for 
anything  beyond  my  board  and  clothes.  And 
when  I  got  engaged  to  Annie,  I  went  to  him  and 
said,  '  Father,  now 's  the  time  to  give  me  a  start, 
or  let  me  cut  loose  from  here.'  And  he  never 
answered  me  a  word;  but  a  couple  of  weeks 
after  that  he  bought  the  Turnbull  place.  And 
last  week  it  was,  he  said  to  me,  kind  of  quick, 
as  if  he  'd  made  up  his  mind  to  something  and 
wa'n't  quite  ready  to  talk  it  over, '  I  've  got  a  sort 
of  a  new  scheme  afoot.'  And  then't  was  I  wrote 
to  Annie  and  asked  her  how  soon  she  could  be 
ready  to  come,  if  I  was  ready  to  have  her.  You 
know  all  that,  mother.  What  makes  you  act  as 
if  you  did  n't  ?  " 

The  argument  was  too  warm  for  Mrs.  Dill. 
She  rose  from  her  chair  and  began  putting  up 
the  table-leaf  and  setting  out  the  necessary  dishes 
for  a  batch  of  cake. 

"  Your  father  wanted  you  should  take  an  axe 
and  go  down  where  he  is  in  the  long  lot,"  she 
remarked.  "  And  I  would  n't  open  your  head  to 
him  about  what  we've  been  sayin',  Hermie.  You 
talk  it  over  with  mother.  That 's  the  best  way." 

"  Why,  course  I  sha'n't  speak  of  it  till  I  have 
to."  He  took  up  his  cap,  and  then  with  an  air  of 
aggrieved  dignity  turned  to  the  door.  "  But  the 


THE   OTHER  MRS.   DILL        245 

time  '11  come  when  I  Ve  got  to  speak  of  it.  Lot 
Collins  was  tellin'  me  only  this  mornin'  over  to 
the  blacksmith's,  how  his  father  's  took  him  into 
partnership,  and  Lot  's  only  twenty-one  this 
spring.  His  father  ain't  wasted  a  day." 

"  Well,  that 's  a  real  business,  blacksmithin' 
is,"  his  mother  hastened  to  reply. 

"  So  's  farmin'  a  real  business.  And  father  's 
treated  me  from  the  word  'go  '  like  a  hired  man 
and  nothin'  else.  He 's  bought  and  sold  without 
openin'  his  head  to  me.  I  wonder  I  Ve  grown 
up  at  all.  I  wonder  I  ain't  in  tyers,  makin'  mud- 
pies.  If  't  wa'n't  for  you  and  Annie,  I  should  n't 
think  I  was  any  kind  of  a  man." 

His  angry  passion  was  terribly  appealing  to 
her.  It  made  her  heart  ache,  and  she  had  much 
ado  to  keep  from  taking  him  to  her  arms,  big  as 
he  was,  and  comforting  him,  as  she  used  to, 
years  ago,  when  he  came  in  with  frostbitten  fin 
gers  or  the  dire  array  of  cuts  and  bruises.  But 
she  judged  it  best,  in  the  interest  of  domestic 
government,  to  quell  emotion  that  could  have, 
she  knew,  no  hopeful  issue,  and  she  began  break 
ing  eggs  into  her  mixing  bowl  and  then  beating 
them  with  a  brisk  hand. 

"  Father  never  was  one  to  talk  over  his  busi 
ness  with  anybody,  even  the  nearest,"  she  re 
joined.  "  You  know  that,  Hermie.  We  Ve  got 
to  take  folks  as  we  find  'em.  Now  you  go  ahead 


246          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

down  to  the  long  lot.  He  '11  be  wonderin'  where 
you  be." 

Herman  strode  away,  after  one  incredu 
lous  look  at  her,  a  shaft  she  felt  through  her 
downcast  lids.  It  demanded  whether  father  and 
mother  had  equally  forsaken  him,  and  gave  her 
a  quick,  sharp  pang,  and  a  blinding  flash  of 
tears.  But  she  went  on  mixing  cake,  and  bat 
tling  arguments  as  she  worked,  and  when  her  tin 
was  in  the  oven,  washed  her  baking  dishes  meth 
odically  and  then  sat  down  by  the  window  to 
read  the  weekly  paper.  But  as  she  read,  she 
glanced  up,  now  and  then,  at  the  familiar  walls 
of  her  kitchen,  and  through  the  window  at  the 
trees  just  shimmering  into  green  and  the  skyey 
intervals  over  them.  This  was  the  pictured  land 
scape  she  had  worked  on,  framed  by  these  wride, 
low  windows,  for  all  the  years  she  had  lived  here, 
doing  her  wifely  duties  soberly,  and  her  motherly 
ones  with  a  hidden  and  ecstatic  buoyancy. 

The  house,  the  bit  of  the  world  it  gave  upon, 
seemed  a  part  of  her  life,  the  containing  husk  of 
all  the  fruitage  born  to  her.  It  was  incredible 
that  she  was  to  give  it  up  and  undertake  not  only 
a  heavier  load  of  work  but  a  new  scene  for  it,  at 
a  time  when  she  longed  to  fold  her  hands  and 
sit  musing  while  young  things  filled  the  picture 
with  beautiful  dancing  motions,  and  the  loves 
and  fears  she  remembered  as  a  part  of  the  warm 


THE  OTHER  MRS.   DILL        247 

reality  of  it,  but  not  now  so  intimately  her  own. 
It  was  as  if  the  heaped-up  basket  of  earthly  fruits 
had  passed  her  by,  to  be  given  into  other  hands; 
but  she  had  eaten  and  was  content,  if  only  she 
might  see  the  banquet  lamps  and  hear  the  happy 
laughter.  She  began  to  feel  light-headed  from 
the  pain  of  it  all,  the  pleasures  and  sadnesses  of 
memory,  the  fear  of  anticipation,  and  turned 
again  to  her  paper  with  the  intent  of  giving  her 
mind  to  safe  and  homely  things.  But  something 
caught  her  eyes  and  held  them.  A  window 
seemed  to  be  opened  before  her.  She  looked 
through  it  into  her  tumultuous  past.  Or  was  this 
a  weapon  put  into  her  hand  for  the  exacting 
future  ? 

That  night  Myron  Dill  came  into  the  sitting- 
room  after  his  chores  were  done,  and  lay  down 
on  the  lounge  between  the  two  front  windows. 
He  composed  himself  on  his  back  with  his  hands 
placidly  folded,  and  there  his  wife  found  him 
when  she  came  in  after  her  own  completed  list 
of  deeds.  He  did  not  look  up  at  her,  and  she 
was  glad.  She  did  not  know  how  her  eyes 
gleamed  behind  the  glittering  plane  of  their 
glasses,  nor  how  deep  the  red  was  in  her  cheeks ; 
but  she  was  conscious  of  an  inward  tumult  which 
must,  she  knew,  somehow  betray  itself.  For  an 
instant  she  stood  and  looked  at  her  husband,  in 
what  might  have  been  relenting  or  anticipation 


248         COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

of  the  road  she  had  to  take.  She  knew  so  well 
what  mantle  of  repose  was  over  him:  how  he 
liked  the  peeping  of  the  frogs  through  the  open 
window,  and  what  measure  of  satisfaction  there 
was  for  him  in  the  consciousness  of  full  rest  and 
the  certainty  that  next  day  would  usher  in  a 
crowding  horde  of  duties  he  felt  perfectly  able 
to  administer.  Mrs.  Dill  was  a  feminine  creature, 
charged  to  the  full  with  the  love  of  service  and 
unerring  intuition  as  to  the  manner  of  it,  and  she 
did  love  to  "  see  men-folks  comfortable." 

"  Don't  you  want  I  should  pull  your  boots 
off?" 

This  she  said  unwillingly,  because  she  was 
about  to  break  the  current  of  his  peace,  and 
it  seemed  deceitful  to  offer  him  an  alleviation 
that  would  do  him  no  good  after  all. 

"  No,"  said  Myron  sleepily.  "  Let  'em  be  as 
they  are." 

Mrs.  Dill  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down  in  it 
at  his  side,  as  if  she  were  the  watcher  by  a  sick 
bed  or  the  partner  in  a  cosy  conversation. 

"  Myron,"  said  she.  Her  voice  frightened  her. 
It  sounded  hoarse  and  strange,  and  yet  there 
was  very  little  of  it,  deserted  by  her  failing 
breath. 

u  What  say  ?  "  he  answered  from  his  drowse. 

"  I  found  a  real  interestin'  piece  in  the 
6 Monitor'  this  mornin'.  It  was  how  some  folks 


THE  OTHER  MRS.  DILL         249 

ain't  jest  one  person,  as  we  think,  but  they're 
two  and  sometimes  three.  And  mebbe  one  of 
'em  's  good,  and  t'other  two  are  bad,  and  when 
they  're  bad  they  can't  help  it.  They  can't  help 
it,  Myron,  the  bad  ones  can't,  no  matter  how 
hard  they  try." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  come  acrost  it,"  said  Myron. 
"  Terrible  foolish  it  was.  That 's  one  o'  the  things 
doctors  get  up  to  feather  their  own  nest." 

"  No,  Myron,  it  ain't  foolish,"  said  his  wife. 
She  moved  her  chair  nearer,  and  her  glasses 
glittered  at  him.  "  It  ain't  foolish,  for  I  'm  one 
o'  that  same  kind,  and  I  know." 

His  eyes  came  open,  and  he  turned  his  head 
to  look  at  her. 

"  Ain't  you  feelin'  well,  Caddie  ?  "  he  asked 
kindly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  'm  well  as  common,"  she  answered. 
"  But  it  ain't  foolish,  Myron,  and  you  've  got  to 
hear  me.  '  Double  Personality,'  that 's  what  they 
call  it.  Well,  I  've  got  it.  I  've  got  double  per 
sonality." 

Myron  Dill  put  his  feet  to  the  floor,  and  sat 
upright.  He  was  regarding  his  wife  anxiously, 
but  he  took  pains  to  speak  with  a  commonplace 
assurance. 

"  We  might  as  well  be  gettin'  off  to  bed  early, 
I  guess.  I  'm  tired,  and  so  be  you." 

"  I  've  felt  it  for  quite  a  long  spell,"  said  his 


250         COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

wife  earnestly.  "  I  don't  know  but  I  Ve  always 
felt  it  —  leastways,  all  through  my  married  life. 
It 's  somethin'  that  makes  me  as  mad  as  tophet 
when  you  start  me  out  to  do  anything  I  don't 
feel  it 's  no  ways  right  to  do,  and  it  keeps  whis- 
perin'  to  me  I  'm  a  fool  to  do  it.  That 's  what  it 
says,  Myron.  '  You  're  a  fool  to  do  it ! ' " 

Myron  was  touched  at  last,  through  his  armor 
of  esteem. 

"  I  ain't  asked  you  to  do  what  ain't  right,  Cad 
die,"  he  asseverated.  "  What  makes  you  tell  me 
I  have?" 

u  That 's  what  it  says  to  me,"  she  repeated 
fixedly.  "  <  You  're  a  fool  to  do  it.'  That 's  what 
it  says.  It 's  my  double  personality." 

It  seemed  best  to  Myron  to  humor  this  inex 
plicable  mood,  until  he  could  persuade  her  back 
into  a  normal  one. 

"  That  wa'n't  the  way  I  understood  it,"  he  told 
her, "  when  I  read  the  piece.  The  folks  that  were 
afflicted  seemed  like  different  folks.  Now,  you 
ain't  any  different,  rain  or  shine.  You  're  as 
even  as  anybody  I  should  wish  to  see.  That 's 
what  I  've  liked  about  ye,  Caddie." 

The  softness  of  the  implication  she  swept 
aside,  as  if  she  hardly  dared  regard  it  lest  it 
weaken  her  resolve. 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  the  same,  day  in,  day 
out,"  she  declared  eagerly.  "  I  feel  I  ain't,  My- 


THE   OTHER  MRS.  DILL         251 

ron.  It 's  gettin'  the  best  of  me,  the  other  creatur' 
that  wants  to  have  its  own  way.  It's  been 
growin'  and  growin',  same  as  a  child  grows  up, 
and  now  it 's  goin'  to  take  its  course.  Same 's 
Hermie  's  growed  up,  you  know.  He 's  old 
enough  to  have  his  way,  and  lead  his  life  same  's 
we  've  led  ours,  and  we  've  got  to  stand  one  side 
and  let  him  do  it." 

Her  husband  gave  her  a  sharp,  sudden  glance, 
and  then  fell  again  to  the  contemplation  of  his 
knotted  brown  hands  that  seemed,  like  all  his 
equipment,  informed  with  specialized  power. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  guess  you  need 
a  kind  of  a  change.  You  '11  feel  better  when  you 
get  over  to  t'  other  house.  There  's  a  different 
outlook  over  there,  and  you  '11  have  more  to  take 
up  your  mind." 

She  answered  instantly,  in  the  haste  that  dares 
not  wait  upon  reflection.  Her  eyes  were  brighter 
now,  and  her  hands  worked  nervously. 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  goin'  to  move,  Myron.  I  might  as 
well  tell  you  that  now.  I  'm  goin'  to  stay  right 
here  where  I  be.  I  don't  feel  able  to  help  it. 
That 's  my  double  personality.  It  won't  let  me." 

Her  husband  was  looking  at  her  now  in  what 
seemed  to  her  a  very  threatening  way.  His 
shaggy  eyebrows  were  drawn  together  and  his 
eyes  had  lightning  in  them.  She  continued  star 
ing  at  him,  held  by  the  fascination  of  her  terror. 


252          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

In  that  instant  she  realized  a  great  many  things : 
chiefly  that  she  had  never  seen  her  husband 
angry  with  her,  because  she  had  taken  every 
path  to  avoid  the  possibility,  and  that  it  was  even 
more  sickening  than  she  could  have  thought. 
But  she  knew  also  that  the  battle  was  on,  and 
suddenly,  for  no  reason  she  could  formulate,  she 
remembered  one  of  her  own  fighting  ancestors 
who  was  said  to  have  died  hard  in  the  Revolution. 

"  That  was  old  Abner  Kinsman,"  she  broke 
out;  and  when  her  husband  asked,  out  of  his 
amaze  at  her  irrelevance,  "What's  that  you 
said  ?  "  she  only  answered  confusedly,  "  Nothing 
I  guess." 

At  that  the  storm  seemed  to  Myron  to  be  over, 
and  his  forehead  cleared  of  anger.  He  looked  at 
her  in  much  concern. 

"  I  guess  you  better  lay  late  to-morrer  mornin'," 
he  said,  rising  to  close  the  windows  and  wind 
the  clock.  "  I  '11  ride  over  and  get  Sally  Drew  to 
come  and  stay  a  spell  and  help  you." 

Something  tightened  through  her  tense  body, 
and  she  answered  instantly  in  a  clear,  loud 
note,  — 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  Sally  Drew.  Last  time 
I  had  her  she  washed  up  the  hearth  with  the 
dish-cloth.  If  I  want  me  a  girl,  I'll  get  one;  but 
mebbe  I  sha'n't  want  one  till  Hermie  brings  Annie 
into  the  neighborhood  to  live." 


THE   OTHER  MES.  DILL         253 

She  stood  still  in  her  place  for  a  moment, 
trembling  all  over,  and  wondering  what  would 
happen  when  Myron  had  wound  the  clock  and 
closed  the  windows  and  turned  the  wooden  but 
ton  of  the  door.  He  did  not  look  at  her,  nor  did 
he  speak  again,  and  when  she  heard  his  deep, 
regular  breathing  from  the  bedroom  she  slipped 
in  softly,  made  ready  for  bed,  and  lay  down  be 
side  him. 

She  slept  very  little  that  night.  He  seemed  to 
be  a  stranger,  because  there  had  been  outward 
division  between  them;  and  yet,  curiously,  she 
felt  nearer  to  him  because  she  might  have  hurt 
him,  and  the  jealous  partisanship  within  her 
kept  prompting  her  to  a  more  tumultuous  good 
will,  a  warmer  service. 

Next  morning,  when  Hermie  had  left  them 
at  the  breakfast-table,  and  gone  silently  to  his 
tasks,  his  mother  leaned  across  the  table  as  if, 
for  some  reason,  she  had  to  attract  her  hus 
band's  attention  before  speaking  to  him.  He 
was  just  taking  the  last  swallow  of  coffee,  and 
now  he  set  down  his  cup  with  decision,  and 
moved  away  his  plate.  She  knew  what  the 
next  step  would  be.  He  would  push  back  his 
chair,  clear  his  throat,  and  then  he  would  be 
gone. 

"  Myron !  "  she  said.  She  spoke  as  something 
within  Myron  remembered  the  school-teacher 


254          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

speaking,  when  she  called  him  to  the  board. 
The  something  within  him  responded  to  it,  and 
without  knowing  why,  he  straightened  and 
looked  attentive.  "  You  noticed  Hermie,  did  n't 
you  ?  "  she  adjured  him.  "  You  noticed  he  did  n't 
have  a  word  to  say  for  himself,  and  he  would  n't 
look  neither  of  us  in  the  face  ?  " 

"  What 's  he  been  up  to  ?  "  Myron  queried, 
with  his  ready  frown.  "  He  done  somethin'  out 
o'  the  way  ?  " 

"  No,  he  ain't.  I  should  think  you'd  be  ashamed 
to  hint  such  a  thing,  Myron  Dill,  your  own  boy, 
too  !  All  he  's  done  is  to  stay  here,  and  work  his 
fingers  to  the  bone,  and  no  thanks  for  it,  and 
he  's  right  down  discouraged.  I  know  how  the 
boy  feels.  Myron,  I  want  you  should  do  some- 
thin'.  I  want  you  should  do  it  now." 

Myron  gave  his  chair  the  expected  push,  but 
he  still  sat  there. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "what  is  it?  I  Ve  got  to  be 
off  down  to  the  medderlands." 

"  I  want  you  should  make  over  the  Turnbull 
place  to  Hermie,  and  have  him  fetch  Annie  there 
as  soon  as  ever  she  '11  come,  and  let  him  farm  it 
without  if  or  but  from  you  and  me." 

Myron  was  on  his  feet.  He  looked  porten 
tously  large  and  masterful. 

"  You  better  not  think  o'  packin'  the  chiny," 
he  said,  in  his  ordinary  tone  of  generalship. 


THE   OTHER  MES.  DILL         255 

"We  can  set  it  into  baskets  with  a  mite  o'  hay, 
and  it  '11  get  as  fur  as  that  without  any  break 
ages." 

His  wife  slipped  out  of  her  chair,  and  went 
round  the  table  to  him.  She  laid  a  hand  on  his 
arm.  Myron  wanted,  in  the  irritation  of  the 
moment,  to  shake  it  off,  but  he  was  a  man  of 
dignity,  and  forbore.  His  wife  was  speaking  in 
a  very  gentle  tone,  but  somehow  different  from 
the  one  he  was  used  to  noting. 

"  Myron,  ain't  you  goin'  to  hear  me  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  listen  to  any  tomfoolery,  and 
I  ain't  goin'  to  have  anybody  dictatin'  to  me 
about  my  own  business." 

"  It  ain't  your  business,  Myron,  any  more  'n  't  is 
mine.  Hermie's  much  my  son  as  he  is  your'n, 
and  what  you  bought  that  place  with  is  as  much 
mine  as  'tis  your'n.  I  helped  you  earn  it.  Myron, 
it 's  comin'  up  in  me.  I  can  feel  it." 

"What  is?" 

In  spite  of  all  his  old  dull  certainties,  he  felt  the 
shock  of  wonder.  He  looked  at  her,  her  scarlet 
cheeks  and  widening  eyes.  Even  her  pretty  hair 
seemed  to  have  acquired  a  nervous  life,  and 
stood  out  in  a  quivering  aureole.  Myron  was 
much  bound  to  his  Caddie  in  his  way  of  being 
attached  to  his  own  life  and  breath.  A  change 
in  her  was  horrible  to  him,  like  the  disturbance 
of  illness  in  an  ordered  house. 


256          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  inquired  again.  "  What  is 
it  you  feel  ?  " 

"  It  's  that,"  she  said,  with  an  added  vehem 
ence.  "  It 's  my  double  personality." 

Myron  Dill  could  have  wept  from  the  surprise 
of  it  all,  the  assault  upon  his  wondering  nerves. 

"  You  spread  up  the  bed  in  the  bedroom,  Cad 
die,"  he  bade  her,  "  and  go  lay  down  a  spell." 

"  No,"  said  his  wife,  "I  sha'n't  lay  down,  and 
I  sha'n't  give  up  to  you.  It 's  riz  up  in  me,  the 
one  that 's  goin'  to  beat,  no  matter  what  comes 
of  it,  same  as  old  Abner  Kinsman  stood  up 
ag'inst  the  British.  Mebbe  it  '11  die  fightin',  same 's 
he  did,  and  I  never  '11  hear  no  more  from  it,  — 
and  a  good  riddance.  But  Myron,  it 's  goin'  to 
beat." 

Her  husband  was  frowning,  not  harshly  now, 
but  from  the  extremity  of  his  distress.  He  spoke 
in  a  tone  of  well-considered  adjuration. 

"  Caddie,  you  know  what  you  're  doin'  of  ? 
You  're  settin'  up  your  will  in  place  o'  mine." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  ain't,  Myron,"  she  responded  ea 
gerly,  with  an  earnest  motion  toward  him,  as  if 
she  besought  him  to  put  faith  in  her.  "It  ain't 
me  that 's  doin'  it." 

"  It  ain't  you?  Who  is  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  it 's  my  double  personality.  Ain't  I 
just  told  you  so  ?  " 

Myron  stood  gazing  at  her  in  the  futility  of 


THE  OTHER  MRS.  DILL         257 

comprehension  he  had  felt  years  ago,  when 
Caddie,  who  had  been  "  a  great  reader,"  as  the 
neighbors  said,  before  the  avalanche  of  house 
hold  cares  had  overwhelmed  her,  propounded  to 
him,  while  he  was  drawing  off  his  boots  for  an 
hour  of  twilight  somnolence  before  going  to  bed, 
problems  that,  he  knew,  no  man  could  answer. 
Neither  were  they  to  be  illumined  by  Holy 
Writ,  for  he  had  offered  that  loophole  of  exit, 
and  Caddie  had  shaken  her  head  at  him  discon 
solately,  and  implied  that  the  prophets  would 
not  do.  But  when  she  had  seemed  to  forget  that 
interrogative  attitude  toward  life,  he  had  settled 
down  to  unquestioning  content  in  knowing  he 
had  the  best  housekeeper  in  the  neighborhood. 
Now  here  it  was  again,  the  spectre  of  her  queer- 
ness  rising  to  distress  him. 

She  looked  at  him  with  wide,  affrighted 
eyes. 

"  You  set  here  with  me  a  spell,"  she  adjured 
him.  "  I  '11  lay  down  on  the  sofy,  and  you  take 
the  big  rocker.  If  you  see  it  comin'  up  in  me, 
you  kinder  say  something  and  mebbe  it  '11  go 
away." 

Myron,  though  in  extreme  unwillingness,  did 
as  he  was  bidden.  He  wanted  to  bundle  the 
whole  troop  of  her  imaginings  out  of  doors,  and 
plod  off,  like  a  sane  man,  to  his  fencing;  but 
somehow  her  earnestness  itself  forbade.  When 


258          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

they  were  established,  she  on  the  sofa,  with  her 
bright  eyes  piercing  him,  and  he  seated  at  an 
angle  where  a  nurse  might  easiest  wait  upon  a 
patient's  needs,  the  absurdity  of  it  all  swept 
over  him.  The  clock  was  ticking  irritatingly 
behind  him.  He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  took 
assurance  from  the  vision  of  the  flying  day. 

"Now,  Caddie,"  said  he,  in  that  specious 
soothing  we  accord  to  children,  "  you  lay  right 
still,  and  I  '11  go  out  a  spell  and  do  a  few  chores, 
and  then  mebbe  I  '11  come  in  and  see  how  you 
be." 

Caddie  put  out  a  hand,  and  fastened  it  upon 
his  in  an  inexorable  clasp. 

"  No,  Myron,"  said  she,  "  you  ain't  goin'.  If  I 
should  be  left  here  to  myself,  and  it  come  up  in 
me,  I  dunno  what  I  might  do." 

Myron  felt  himself  yielding  again,  and  clutched 
at  confidence  as  the  spent  swimmer  reaches  for 
a  plank. 

"What  do  you  think  you'd  do,  Caddie?  "  he 
demanded.  "  That 's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"  I  can't  tell,  Myron,"  she  returned  solemnly. 
"  True  as  I  'm  a  livin'  woman,  I  can't  tell  you. 
Mebbe  I  'd  go  over  to  the  Turnbull  house  and 
set  it  a-fire,  so  't  I  should  n't  ever  live  in  it. 
Mebbe  I'd  take  my  bank-book,  and  go  up  to 
the  Street,  and  draw  out  that  money  aunt 
Susan  left  me,  and  give  it  to  Hermie,  so 's  he 


THE  OTHER  MRS.  DILL        259 

could  run  away,  and  take  Annie  with  him.  If 
that  other  one  come  up  in  me,  I  dunno  what 
I'd  do." 

Myron  gazed  at  her,  aghast. 

"Why,  Caddie,"  said  he,  "you  can't  go  round 
settin'  houses  a-fire.  That 's  arson." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  she  inquired.  "  Well,  I  dunno  what 
it 's  called,  but  if  that  other  one  gets  the  better 
o'  me,  mebbe  that 's  what  I  shall  do." 

Myron  held  her  hand  now  with  an  involuntary 
fervor  of  his  own,  not  so  much  because  she 
bade  him,  but  with  the  purpose  of  restraining 
her.  An  hour  passed,  and  her  blue  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  him  with  the  same  imploring  force. 
He  fidgeted,  and  at  last  longed  childishly  to  see 
them  wink. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  see  the  doctor  ?  "  he  ven 
tured. 

"  No,"  said  Caddie,  in  the  same  tone  of  wild 
asseveration.  "Doctors  won't  do  me  a  mite  o' 
good.  Besides,  doctors  know  all  about  it,  and 
they  'd  see  what  was  to  pay,  and  they  'd  send  me 
off  to  some  kind  of  a  hospital,  and  there  'd  be  a 
pretty  bill  o'  costs." 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  Myron  ven 
tured,  with  a  grasp  at  mental  liberty.  He  es 
sayed,  at  the  same  time,  to  draw  away  his  hand, 
but  Caddie  seemed  to  fix  him  with  a  sharper 
eye-gleam,  and  he  forbore. 


260          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  There 's  Hermie,"  she  said.  "  I  hear  him  in 
the  shed,  rattlin'  round  amongst  the  tools.  You 
call  him  in  here,  and  when  he 's  here,  you  tell 
him  he  's  goin'  to  have  the  Turnbull  place,  and 
have  it  now.  Myron,  you  tell  him." 

Myron  made  a  slight  involuntary  movement 
in  his  chair,  as  if  he  were  about  to  rise  and  carry 
out  her  mandate;  but  he  settled  back  again,  and 
Herman,  having  selected  the  tool  he  wanted, 
went  off  through  the  shed  and,  as  they  both 
knew,  down  the  garden-path. 

The  forenoon  went  on  in  a  strange  silence, 
save  for  the  sound  of  the  birds,  and  an  occa 
sional  voice  of  neighbors  calling  to  Herman  as 
they  passed.  Myron  had  still  that  sickening 
sense  of  illness  in  the  house.  The  breakfast 
dishes  were,  he  knew,  untouched  upon  the  table. 
The  cat  came  in,  looked  incidentally  at  the  sofa 
as  if  she  were  accustomed  to  occupy  it  at  that 
particular  hour,  and  walked  out  again.  Myron 
drew  forth  his  watch,  and  looked  at  it  with  a 
stealthiness  he  could  not  explain. 

"Why,"  said  he,  with  a  simulated  wonder, 
"  it 's  nigh  half  after  eleven.  Had  n't  you  better 
see  about  gettin'  dinner  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  get  any  dinner,"  his  wife 
responded.  "  I  don't  know  as  I  shall  ever  get 
dinners  any  more.  Myron,  it's  comin'  up  in 
me.  I  feel  it."  She  dropped  his  hand  and  rose 


THE  OTHER  MRS.  DILL         261 

to  a  sitting  posture,  and  for  a  moment,  yield 
ing  to  the  physical  relief  of  the  broken  clasp, 
he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  drew  a  hearty 
breath. 

"  Myron,"  said  his  wife.  There  was  something 
mandatory  in  her  voice,  and  he  came  upright 
again.  "Now  I'm  goin'  to  do  it.  I  don't  know 
what  't  is,  but  it's  got  the  better  o'  me  and  I'm 
goin'  to  do  what  it  says.  But  'fore  I  give  way  to 
it,  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  this.  You've  got  as  good 
a  home  and  as  good  a  son  and  as  good  a  wife, 
if  I  do  say  it,  as  any  man  in  the  State  o'  New 
Hampshire.  And  you  can  keep  'em,  Myron,  jest 
as  they  be,  jest  as  good  as  they  always  have 
been,  if  you  '11  only  hear  to  reason  and  give  other 
folks  a  chance.  You  've  got  to  give  me  a  chance, 
and  you've  got  to  give  Herman  a  chance.  I 
guess  mebbe  I'd  sell  all  my  chances  for  the  sake 
of  turnin'  'em  in  with  Hermie's.  But  you've  got 
to  do  it,  and  you  've  got  to  do  it  now.  And  if 
you  don't,  somethin'  's  goin'  to  happen.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is.  I  don't  know  no  more'n  the 
dead,  for  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever  really  knew 
I  had  that  terrible  creatur'  inside  of  me  that 's 
goin'  to  beat.  But  I  do  know  it,  and  you  've  got 
to  stand  from  under." 

She  turned  about  and  walked  to  the  side  win 
dow,  looking  on  the  garden.  She  was  a  slight 
woman,  but  Myron,  watching  her  in  the  f  ascina- 


262          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOES 

tion  of  his  dread,  had  momentary  remembrance 
of  her  father,  who  had  been  a  man  of  majestic 
presence  and  unflinching  will. 

"  Herman,"  his  wife  was  calling  from  the  win 
dow.  "  Herman,  you  come  here." 

That  new  mysterious  note  in  her  voice  evi 
dently  affected  the  young  man  also.  He  came, 
hurrying,  and  when  he  had  entered  stayed  upon 
the  threshold,  warm-hued  with  work  and  bring 
ing  with  him  the  odor  of  the  soil.  His  brown 
eyes  went  from  one  of  them  to  the  other,  and 
questioned  them. 

"What  is  it?"  he  inquired.  "What's  hap 
pened  ?" 

Myron  got  upon  his  feet.  He  had  a  dazed 
feeling  that  the  two  were  against  him,  and  he 
could  face  them  better  so.  He  hated  the  situa 
tion,  the  abasement  that  came  from  a  secret  self 
within  him  which  was  almost  terribly  moved  by 
some  of  the  things  his  wife  had  spoken  out  of 
her  long  silence.  He  was  a  proud  man,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  dreadful  that  he  should  in  any 
way  have  won  such  harsh  appeal. 

"Herman,"  his  wife  was  beginning,  "your 
father  's  got  somethin'  to  say  to  you." 

Herman  waited,  but  his  father  could  not 
speak.  Myron  was  really  seeing,  as  in  a  homely 
vision,  the  peace  of  the  garden  where  he  might 
at  this. moment  have  been  expecting  the  call  to 


THE   OTHER  MRS.  DILL         263 

dinner  if  he  had  not  been  summoned  to  the  bar 
of  judgment. 

"  I  guess  he 's  goin'  to  let  me  say  it,"  his  wife 
continued.  "Father's  goin'  to  give  you  a  deed  o' 
the  Turnbull  place.  It 's  goin'  to  be  yours,  same 
as  if  you  'd  bought  it,  and  you  and  Annie  are 
goin'  to  live  there  all  your  days,  same 's  we  're 
goin'  to  live  here." 

Herman  turned  impetuously  upon  his  father. 
There  was  a  great  rush  of  life  to  his  face,  and 
his  father  saw  it  and  understood,  in  the  amaze 
ment  of  it,  things  he  had  never  stopped  to  con 
sider  about  the  boy  who  had  miraculously  grown 
to  be  a  man.  But  Herman  was  finding  some 
thing  in  his  father's  jaded  mien.  It  stopped  him 
on  the  tide  of  happiness,  and  he  spoke  impetu 
ously. 

"  She 's  dragged  it  out  o'  you !  Mother 's  been 
tellin'  you !  I  don't  want  it  that  way,  father,  not 
unless  it 's  your  own  free  will.  I  won't  have  it 
no  other  way." 

It  was  a  man's  word  to  a  man.  Myron 
straightened  himself  to  his  former  bearing.  ID  a 
flash  of  memory  he  remembered  the  day  when 
liis  father,  an  old-fashioned  man,  had  given  him 
his  freedom  suit  and  shaken  hands  with  him  and 
wished  him  well.  Involuntarily  he  put  out  his 
hand. 

"  It 's  my  own  will,  Hermie,"  he  said,  in  a  tone 


264          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

they  had  not  heard  from  him  since  the  day, 
eighteen  years  behind  them,  when  the  boy  Her- 
mie  was  rescued  from  the  "  old  swimmin'-hole." 
"  We  '11  have  the  deeds  drawed  up  to-morrer." 

They  stood  an  instant,  hands  gripped,  regard 
ing  each  other  in  the  allegiance  not  of  blood 
alone.  The  clasp  broke,  and  they  remembered 
the  woman  and  turned  to  her.  There  she  stood, 
trembling  a  little,  but  apparently  removed  from 
all  affairs  too  large  for  her.  She  had  taken  a 
cover  from  the  stove,  and  was  obviously  reflect 
ing  on  the  next  step  in  her  domestic  progress. 

"  I  guess  you  better  bring  me  in  a  handful  o' 
that  fine  kindling  Hermie,"  she  remarked,  in  her 
wonted  tone  of  brisk  suggestion,  "  so 's  't  I  can 
brash  up  the  fire.  I  sha'n't  have  dinner  on  the 
stroke  —  not  'fore  half -past  one." 


THE  ADVOCATE 

"You  goin'?"  called  Isabel  Wilde  from  the 
road,  to  Ardelia,  sitting  forlornly  on  the  front 
steps. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  of  a  wonderful  August 
morning,  with  all  the  bloom  of  summer  and  the 
lull  of  fall.  Isabel  was  a  dark,  strong  young 
creature  who  walked  with  her  head  in  the  air, 
and  Ardelia,  pretty  and  frail  and  perfect  in  her 
own  small  way,  looked  like  a  child  in  compari 
son.  Isabel  had  been  down  to  carry  a  frosted 
cake  to  her  little  niece  Ellen,  for  Ellen's  share 
of  the  picnic  at  Poole's  Woods.  It  was  Fairfax 
day,  when  once  a  year  all  Fairfax  went  to  the 
spot  where  the  first  settlers  drank  of  the  "  b'  ilin' 
spring  "  on  their  way  to  a  clearing. 

"  You  goin'  ?"  she  called  again,  imperiously, 
and  Ardelia  answered,  as  if  from  some  unwill 
ingness  :  — 

"  I  guess  so." 

"Now  what  do  you  want  to  say  that  for?" 
rang  her  mother's  voice  from  an  upper  window, 
where,  trusting  to  her  distance  from  the  road, 
she  thought  she  could  speak  her  mind  without 


266          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

Isabel's  hearing.  "  You  know  you  ain't.  Oliver 's 
gone  off  to  work  in  the  acre  lot." 

Isabel  had  heard.  She  stood  regarding  Ardelia 
thoughtfully,  her  black  brows  drawn  together 
and  her  teeth  set  upon  one  full  lip. 

"  Ardelia,"  she  called  softly,  after  that  moment 
of  consideration. 

"  What  is  it?"  came  Ardelia's  unwilling  voice, 
the  tone  of  one  who  has  emotion  to  conceal. 

"  Come  here  a  minute." 

Ardelia  rose  slowly  and  came  down  the  path. 
She  was  a  wisp  of  a  creature,  perfectly  fashioned 
and  very  appealing  in  her  blond  prettiness.  Isa 
bel  eyed  her  sharply  and  judged  from  certain 
signs  that  she  had  at  least  meant  to  go.  She  had 
on  her  light-blue  dimity  with  the  Hamburg  frills, 
and  her  sorrowful  face  indicated  that  she  had 
donned  it  to  no  avail. 

"What  time  you  goin',  'Delia  ?"  asked  Isabel 
quietly,  over  the  fence. 

Ardelia  could  not  look  at  her.  She  stood  with 
bent  head,  busily  arranging  a  spray  of  coreopsis 
that  fell  out  over  the  path,  and  Isabel  was  sure 
her  eyes  were  wet. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  evasively;  "maybe 
not  very  early." 

Isabel  was  looking  at  her  tenderly.  It  was 
not  a  personal  tenderness  so  much  as  a  softness 
born  out  of  peculiar  circumstance.  She  knew 


THE  ADVOCATE  267 

exactly  why  she  was  sorry  for  Ardelia  in  a  way 
no  one  else  could  be.  Yet  there  seemed  to  be 
no  present  means  of  helping  her. 

"Well,"  she  said,  turning  away,  "maybe  I'll 
see  you  there.  Say,  'Delia !  "  A  sudden  thought 
was  brightening  her  eyes  to  even  a  kinder  glow. 
"  If  you  have  n't  planned  any  other  way,  s'pose 
you  go  with  us.  Jim  Bryant 's  goin'  to  take  me, 
and  he  'd  admire  to  have  you,  too.  What  say, 
'Delia?" 

Ardelia's  delicate  figure  straightened,  and 
now  she  looked  at  Isabel.  There  was  something 
new  in  her  gentle  glance.  It  looked  like  dignity. 

"  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you,  Isabel,"  she  re 
turned  stiffly.  "If  I  go,  I've  arranged  to  go 
another  way." 

"All  right,"  said  Isabel.  "Well,  I  guess  I'll 
be  gettin'  along." 

But  before  she  was  half-way  to  the  turning 
of  the  road  she  heard  Mrs.  Drake's  shrill  voice 
from  the  upper  window:  — 

"  He  's  begun  to  dig,  'Delia.  Oliver 's  begun  to 
dig.  He  won't  stop  for  no  picnics,  I  can  tell  ye 
that." 

It  seemed  to  Isabel  as  if  the  world  were  very 
much  out  of  tune  for  delicate  girls  like  'Delia 
who  wanted  pleasure  and  could  not  have  it.  She 
paused  a  moment  at  the  crossing  of  the  roads, 
the  frown  of  consideration  again  upon  her  brow. 


268          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  Makes  me  mad,"  she  said  to  herself,  but  half 
absently,  as  if  that  were  not  the  issue  at  all. 
Then  she  turned  her  back  on  her  own  home- 
road  and  the  house  where  her  starched  dress 
was  awaiting  her,  and  where  Jim  Bryant  would 
presently  call  to  take  her  to  Poole's  Woods,  and 
walked  briskly  down  the  other  way. 

Isabel  stopped  at  the  acre  field,  but  she  had 
no  idea  of  what  she  meant  to  say  when  she  was 
there.  Oliver  was  digging  potatoes,  as  she  knew 
he  would  be,  and  she  recognized  the  bend  of  the 
back,  the  steady  stress  of  one  who  toiled  too 
long  and  too  unrestingly,  so  that  his  very  pose 
spoke  like  a  lifelong  purpose.  She  stood  still  for 
a  moment  or  two  before  he  saw  her,  gazing  at 
him.  Old  tenderness  awoke  in  her,  old  angers 
also.  She  remembered  how  he  had  made  her 
suffer  in  the  obstinate  course  of  his  own  will, 
and  how  free  she  had  felt  when  at  last  she  had 
broken  their  engagement  and  seen  him  drift  un 
der  Ardelia's  charm.  But  he  would  always  mean 
something  to  her  more  than  other  men,  in  a 
fashion  quite  peculiar  to  himself.  She  had  agon 
ized  too  much  over  him.  She  had  protected  him 
too  long  against  the  faults  of  his  own  nature, 
and  now  she  could  not  be  content  unless,  for  his 
sake,  she  protected  Ardelia  a  little  also.  Sud 
denly  he  lifted  himself  to  rest  his  back,  and  saw 
her.  They  stood  confronting  each  other,  each 


THE  ADVOCATE  269 

with  a  sense  of  familiarity  and  pain.  Oliver  was 
a  handsome  fellow,  tall,  splendidly  made,  with 
rich,  warm  coloring.  He  looked  kindly,  but  stol 
idly  set  in  his  own  way. 

"  That  you,  Isabel  ?  "  he  asked  awkwardly. 

They  had  met  only  for  a  passing  word  since 
the  breaking  of  their  troth. 

"  Yes,"  said  Isabel  briefly.  "  I  've  got  to  speak 
to  you.  Wait  a  minute.  I  '11  come  in  by  the  bars, 
and  you  meet  me  under  the  old  cherry.  It  '11  be 
shady  there." 

She  turned  back  to  the  bars,  ducked  deftly 
under,  and,  holding  her  skirts  from  the  rough 
land,  made  her  way  to  the  cherry  in  the  corner 
of  the  lot.  Oliver  wonderingly  followed.  She 
felt  again  that  particular  anger  she  reserved  for 
him,  when  she  saw  him  stalking  along,  hoe  in 
hand.  It  was  a  settled  tread,  with  little  spring 
in  it,  and  for  the  moment  it  seemed  to  her  a 
prophecy  of  what  it  would  be  when  he  was  an 
old  man,  with  a  staff  instead  of  the  hoe.  She  was 
waiting  for  him  under  the  tree. 

"  Oliver,"  she  began,  speaking  out  of  an  im 
pulse  hardly  yet  approved  by  judgment,  "  you 
goin'  to  the  picnic  ?  " 

Oliver  looked  at  her  in  wonder. 

"  Why,  no,"  said  he  slowly. 

"Didn't  you  promise  'Delia  you'd  go  ?" 

"No,  I  guess  not.  I  said  mebbe  I'd  be  round 


270          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

if  I  had  time,  but  I  ain't  found  the  time.  These 
'taters  have  got  to  be  dug." 

The  red  had  surged  into  Isabel's  full  cheeks. 
She  looked  an  eloquent  remonstrance. 

"  Oliver,"  she  said  impetuously,  "  'Delia  's  sit- 
tin'  on  the  front  steps,  waitin'  for  you  to  come. 
She  '11  be  terrible  disappointed  if  you  put  her 
aside  like  this." 

Oliver  took  off  his  hat  and  passed  a  hand 
over  his  forehead.  She  noticed,  as  she  had  a 
hundred  times,  how  fine  his  hair  was  at  the 
roots,  and  was  angry  again  because  he  would 
not,  with  his  exasperating  ways,  let  any  woman 
love  him  as  she  might.  He  seemed  to  have  no 
thing  to  say,  but  she  knew  the  picture  of  lone 
'Delia  sitting  on  the  steps  was  far  from  moving 
him.  It  did  cause  him  an  honest  trouble,  for  he 
was  kind;  but  not  for  that  would  he  postpone 
his  work. 

"  Oliver,"  she  continued,  "  did  you  ever  know 
what  'twas  that  made  me  tell  you  we  must  break 
off  bein'  —  engaged  ?  " 

He  was  looking  at  her  earnestly.  His  own 
mind  seemed  returning  to  a  past  ache  and 
loss. 

"  I  understood,"  he  said  at  length — "  I  under 
stood  'twas  because  you  kinder  figured  it  out  we 
shouldn't  get  along  well." 

She  stood  there,  a  frowning  figure,  her  lips 


THE  ADVOCATE  -271 

compressed,  her  eyes  stormy.  Then  she  turned 
to  him,  all  frankness  and  candor. 

"  Oliver,"  she  said,  "  I  never  give  you  any 
reasons.  What's  the  use  ?  I  was  terrible  fond  of 
you.  I  was.  I  don't  know 's  any  girl  ought  to  say 
that  when  you  're  engaged  to  somebody  else,  and 
I  'm  engaged  myself,  and  happy  as  the  day  is 
long.  But  what  't  was  —  what  come  between  us 
—  you  never  made  me  have  a  good  time." 

He  stood  leaning  upon  his  hoe,  very  hand 
some,  very  stern  in  his  attention  to  her,  and,  as 
she  could  see,  entirely  surprised.  The  child  in 
her,  that  rare,  ingenuous  part  she  kept  in  hiding, 
came  out  and  spoke:  — 

"  Why,  Oliver,  we  never  had  any  fun !  You 
were  awful  good  to  me.  You  'd  worry  yourself 
to  pieces  if  I  was  sick;  but  we  never  had  more  'n 
one  or  two  good  times  together,  long 's  it  lasted, 
and  them  I  planned.  And  I  got  terrible  tired  of 
it,  and  I  says  to  myself,  '  If  it 's  so  now,  when 
we're  only  goin'  together,  it  '11  be  a  million  times 
worse  when  we're  married.'  And  then  when  you 
took  a  fancy  to  'Delia,  I  was  real  pleased.  I 
says  to  myself.  <  Maybe  she  '11  know  how  to  man 
age  him.  Maybe  'twas  somethin'  in  me,'  I  says, 
'  that  made  him  not  want  to  have  a  good  time 
with  me,  and  maybe  now  't  won't  be  so.'  And 
when  I  see  you  goin'  on  the  same  old  way, 
workin'  from  mornin'  till  night,  I  says  to  my- 


272          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

self,  'Somethin'  's  got  to  be  done.  I  ain't  goin'  to 
have  'Delia  put  upon  like  this.'  'T  ain't  because 
it 's  'Delia.  I  ain't  so  terrible  fond  of  'Delia,  only 
we  went  to  school  together.  But  don't  you  see, 
Oliver,  I  could  n't  say  it  for  myself  ?  No  girl 
could.  But  I  can  for  'Delia." 

"  Well,"  said  Oliver,  "  well."  He  was  entirely 
amazed.  Then  as  he  looked  at  the  field,  a  gen 
eral  maxim  occurred  to  him,  and  he  remarked, 
"  The  farm 's  got  to  be  carried  on." 

"  No,  it  ain't,  either,"  said  Isabel,  with  a  pas 
sionate  earnestness,  "not  as  you  do  it.  Other 
folks  don't  work  themselves  to  death  the  way 
you  do,  and  you  're  forehanded  too.  It 's  because 
you  like  it.  You  like  it  better  'n  anything  else. 
You  were  born  so,  and  it 's  just  as  bad  as  bein' 
born  with  an  appetite  for  drink  or  anything  else." 

"  I  never  knew  you  felt  so,  Isabel,"  he  said 
gravely.  "  I  don't  see  why  you  did  n't  speak  on 't 
before  when  —  old  times." 

"  I  'd  rather  have  died,"  she  declared  passion 
ately.  "Any  girl  would.  'Delia  would.  Maybe 
she  '11  cry  all  the  afternoon  if  she  finds  she  ain't 
goin';  but  if  you  call  over  there  Saturday  night, 
butter  won't  melt  in  her  mouth.  She  won't  tell 
you  how  'shamed  she  is  before  folks  to  think 
you  didn't  take  the  trouble  to  go  with  her.  Any 
ways,  she  won't  if  she's  any  kind  of  a  girl." 

Oliver  had  plucked  some  wisps  of  grass  from 


THE  ADVOCATE  273 

the  edge  of  turf  under  the  tree,  and  he  was 
wiping  his  hoe  thoughtfully.  Isabel  began  to 
laugh.  She  was  trembling  all  over  from  old 
angers  and  the  excitement  of  her  new  daring, 
and  she  kept  on  laughing. 

"  One  thing,"  she  said,  as  she  brushed  away 
the  tears  with  an  impatient  hand,  "  'Delia's 
mother's  got  her  spy-glass  on  us  this  very 
minute.  What  under  the  sun  she  thinks  I  'm 
here  for  I  don't  know  and  I  don't  much  care. 
You  can  tell  her  anything  you  're  a  mind  to. 
Only  you  come.  Come  now, Oliver, you  come!" 

Oliver  quite  meekly  hung  up  his  hoe  in  the 
branches  and  waited  for  her  to  lead  the  way. 

"  I  've  got  to  ketch  the  colt,"  he  said.  "  Mother 
took  Dolly  to  go  after  aunt  Huldy.  Mother 's 
always  made  a  good  deal  o'  the  picnic." 

There  was  a  beat  of  hoofs  upon  the  road,  and 
Isabel,  her  present  mission  stricken  from  her 
mind,  turned  to  see.  It  was  Jim  Bryant,  driving 
by  to  call  for  her. 

"  My  soul ! "  she  said,  under  her  breath. 

"  What  is  it,  Isabel  ?  "  Oliver  was  asking  her, 
with  concern. 

She  had  caught  herself  up,  and  she  laughed 
hi  a  sorry  mirth. 

"  Nbthin',"  she  said.  "  You  catch  the  colt." 

They  walked  out  of  the  field  in  silence.  At 
the  stone  wall  he  paused. 


274          COUNTKY  NEIGHBOES 

"Isabel,"  he  said  solemnly, —  and  with  that 
double  sense  she  had  had  all  through  the  inter 
view,  she  thought  this  was  the  look  she  had 
seen  on  his  grandfather's  face  when  he  led  in 
prayer, —  "Isabel,  you'd  ought  to  spoke  to  me 
before.  Why,  I  've  been  tryin'  to  get  ahead  so  's 
to  make  her  comfortable,  when  —  we  set  up 
housekeepin'." 

Isabel  was  not  sure  whether  he  meant  her  or 
Ardelia.  At  any  rate,  it  was  the  woman  to  whom 
he  was  determined  to  be  loyally  kind.  She  also 
paused  and  looked  at  him  with  earnest  eyes.  It 
was  the  last  moment  in  all  her  life  to  convince 
and  alter  him. 

"  Don't  you  see,  Oliver,"  she  urged,  "that's 
what  folks  are  together  for,  chiefly,  to  have  a 
good  time.  I  don't  mean  they  've  got  to  be  on 
the  go  from  mornin'  till  night.  They  've  got  to 
work  hard,  too.  Why,  what 's  'Delia  marry  in'  you 
for,  anyways.  'T  ain't  to  stay  at  home  and  work, 
day  in,  day  out.  She  can  do  that  now,  right 
where  she  is.  'T  ain't  so 's  she  can  see  you  workin'. 
She  can  take  her  mother's  spy-glass  and  have 
that,  too,  till  she 's  sick  to  death  of  it.  You  go 
along,  Oliver,  and  catch  the  colt." 

He  looked  at  her  very  kindly,  gratefully,  too, 
perhaps,  and  turned  away  toward  the  live-oak 
field.  But  Isabel,  hurrying  homeward,  stopped 
and  called  him. 


THE  ADVOCATE  275 

"  Oliver,  you  say  your  mother 's  gone  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  She  lay  your  things  out  ?  " 

"  No,  I  guess  not.  I  told  her  I  wa'n't  goin'." 

"  Well,  I  '11  see  to  it  as  I  run  along." 

Laying  out  the  things  of  the  men  folks  of 
the  family  was  rigidly  observed  in  this  house 
hold,  where  Oliver  was  regarded  as  the  cherished 
head.  He  had  been  brought  up  to  a  helpless 
lack  of  acquaintance  with  his  best  clothes.  He 
knew  them  only  as  lendings  apt  to  constrict  him 
a  little  when  he  got  them  on,  and  to  rouse  in  his 
mother  a  tendency  to  make  unwelcome  remarks 
about  his  personal  charms.  Where  they  lived, 
between  those  times  of  warfare,  he  scarcely 
knew. 

Isabel  laughed  a  little  to  herself,  in  a  rueful 
fashion,  as  she  hurried  along  the  road.  Her  own 
swain  was  waiting  for  her,  but  not  for  that 
would  she  abjure  the  quest.  She  ran  up  Oliver's 
driveway  and,  without  pausing,  opened  the  blind 
where  the  key,  she  knew,  was  hidden,  and 
snatched  it  forth.  She  unlocked  the  door  and 
crossed  the  kitchen,  rigid  in  its  order,  with 
Oliver's  cold  luncheon  set  out  on  the  table  under 
wire  covers.  She  made  her  way  upstairs,  and 
in  his  room,  also  in  beautiful  array,  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  about  her.  Isabel  gave  a  little 
laugh.  "  I  should  think  I  was  crazy,"  she  said  to 


276          COUNTKY  NEIGHBOKS 

herself;  and  then  she  opened  bureau  drawers 
until  she  found  the  careful  display  of  bosomed 
shirts  she  knew  were  there.  She  laid  one  on  the 
bed,  his  collar  and  necktie  beside  it,  and  took 
down  his  best  suit  from  the  closet.  She  gave  the 
collar  of  the  coat  a  little  unnecessary  brush  with 
her  hand.  It  seemed  almost  a  wifely  touch,  and 
she  was  angry  with  herself.  Yet  it  was  only  that 
this  was  mating- time,  and  the  tender  and  the 
maternal  strove  blindly  in  her,  and  brought  forth 
a  largess  great  enough  to  touch  other  lots  be 
sides  her  own. 

Then  she  sped  downstairs  and  went  away  to 
her  own  home.  Her  mother —  a  little  woman,  all 
energy  —  met  her  at  the  gate.  She  had  on  her 
best  bonnet  and  carried  her  Paisley  shawl.  She 
was  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand  and  looking 
tense  in  a  way  Isabel  declaimed  against,  for  it 
made  wrinkles  in  her  mother's  nice  forehead. 

"  For  mercy  sake,  where  you  been  ? "  she 
called.  "  Ain't  you  seen  Jim  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Isabel  lightly.  "  "Where  is  he  ?" 

"Well,  I  dunno  where  he  is,"  said  her  mother 
reprovingly.  "He  come  here  after  you,  all 
dressed  up,  an'  I  told  him  you  was  gone  down 
to  Ellen's  to  carry  the  cake.  So  he  said  he  'd  go 
along  down  an'  fetch  you  up,  an'  I  told  him  he 
better  stop  to  Ardelia's  an'  see  if  you  was  n't 
there.  An'  then  he  come  back,  ridin'  like  the 


THE  ADVOCATE  277 

wind,  an'  he  said  I  could  tell  you  Mis'  Drake 
said  you 's  goin'  to  the  picnic  with  Oliver.  She 
see  you  through  the  spy-glass,  an'  Oliver 'd  gone 
to  ketch  the  colt." 

"  There 's  father,"  said  Isabel  steadily.  "  He 's 
drivin'  out  the  carriage-house  now.  You  got  the 
cake  in  the  buggy  ?  " 

"  You  do  worry  me  'most  to  death,"  said  Mrs. 
Wilde.  Her  face  had  tied  itself  into  a  snarl  of 
knots,  from  which  the  kindly  eyes  looked  an 
grily.  "  Who  you  goin'  with,  Isabel  ?  You  ain't 
been  an'  took  up  with  Oliver  again,  after  all 's 
said  an'  done  ?  " 

Isabel  laughed,  but  her  voice  shook  a  little, 
and  not  with  mirth. 

"  I  'm  all  right,  mother.  Don't  you  say  any 
thing  to  anybody.  That 's  all.  Here  comes  fa 
ther.  Take  care  your  dress.  You  '11  get  wheel- 
grease  on  it." 

Her  strong  hands  were  lifting  the  little  crea 
ture,  and  Mrs.  Wilde  found  herself  driven  away. 
She  was  turning  a  glance  over  her  shoulder  to 
the  last,  and  calling,  "Isabel,  you  tell  me  — " 
But  father,  who  had  Isabel's  masterful  purpose, 
whipped  up,  and  they  were  gone. 

Isabel,  still  smiling,  as  if  the  sun  itself  could 
judge  her  and  it  was  desirable  to  keep  up  some 
appearance  before  it,  went  into  the  house  and 
closed  the  door  behind  her.  She  took  off  her 


278          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

hat  and  hung  it  on  its  nail  in  the  front  hall. 
Then  her  muscles  seemed  to  weaken  in  a  strange 
way,  and  she  went  into  the  darkened  parlor 
where  no  neighbor  would  find  her,  and  sat  down 
by  the  centre-table.  She  bowed  her  head  upon 
the  great  picture-Bible,  and  unmindful  of  the 
cross  and  anchor  in  perforated  paper  below  and 
the  green  wool  mat  with  its  glass  beads,  began 
to  cry.  Isabel  hated  tears  with  a  fiery  scorn. 
She  liked  to  stand  on  her  two  feet  and  face  the 
world  as  her  father  did;  yet  here  she  was,  sobbing 
over  the  centre-table  and  drawing  quick  breaths 
of  misery.  Even  then,  in  the  passion  of  her 
grief,  it  did  occur  to  her  that  in  all  the  anger 
she  had  felt  toward  Oliver  in  times  past,  she 
had  never  wanted  to  cry.  Something  now  had 
hurt  a  deeper  heart  than  she  knew  she  had. 

She  had  got  over  the  first  tempest  of  her 
grief,  and  sat  drying  her  eyes  with  a  wondering 
shame,  and  suddenly  there  was  a  sound  of  a 
horse  driven  rapidly.  Hope  flooded  her  face 
with  color.  She  sprang  up  and  slipped  to  the 
window  and  peered  out  at  the  side  of  the  cur 
tain.  But  it  was  not  he.  It  was  Oliver,  erect  and 
handsome  in  his  best  clothes,  and  Ardelia  beside 
him.  Oliver  glanced  up  at  the  house  as  they 
went  by ;  but  he  bent  to  Ardelia  again  in  a  way 
that  looked  fondness  and  protection  at  once. 
And  Ardelia  was  openly  in  paradise.  She  was 


THE  ADVOCATE  279 

looking  up  to  him  with  no  eyes  for  any  face  at 
the  window,  and  as  they  whirled  out  of  sight 
Isabel  saw  her  lift  a  hand  and  with  an  intimate, 
pretty  motion  brush  something  from  his  coat. 
Then  they  were  gone,  and  immediately  the 
neighborhood  seemed  to  settle  into  a  quiet.  All 
the  town  was  at  Poole's  Woods,  and  Isabel  was 
left  behind. 

For  a  long  time,  it  seemed  to  her,  she  sat  there, 
trying  to  still  her  breath  and  school  herself  into 
her  old  serenity.  Then,  with  her  handkerchief, 
a  little  wet  ball,  tight  in  one  hand,  she  rose, 
went  to  the  glass  that  even  in  the  darkened 
light  showed  her  a  miserable  look,  made  a  little 
face  at  herself,  and  walked  out  into  the  kitchen. 
There  she  stood  idly  for  a  moment,  debating 
what  she  should  do.  Jim  Bryant  had  not  lived 
long  in  the  town,  but  she  knew  him  well  from 
these  few  weeks  of  intimacy.  He  was  tempest 
uously  devoted  to  her,  in  a  way  that  stirred 
her  blood.  There  was  plenty  of  fire  and  passion 
in  him;  he  had  a  temper,  and  he  would  not 
come  back.  Isabel  set  her  lips.  "  I  guess,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "I'll  have  the  burnfire."  She 
thought  of  baking  pound-cake,  but  all  the  day 
before  they  had  made  cake  for  the  picnic.  She 
might  wash  the  blankets,  or  begin  quilting,  or 
clean  the  cistern.  These  dramas  were  hardly 
exciting  enough.  The  bonfire  was  better.  She 


280          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

tied  on  her  father's  hat  and  kilted  her  skirts. 
Then  she  brought  out  the  iron  rake  from  the 
barn  and  settled  the  brush-heap  anew.  It  was 
on  the  square  of  land  where  she  had  had  her 
perennial  bed  for  three  years,  and  now  she  had 
decided  to  sow  it  down  to  grass.  The  litter  of 
the  garden  was  there,  with  splinters  of  shingle 
and  dried  weeds,  and  next  week  her  father 
meant  to  burn  it. 

Isabel  touched  her  match  and  stood  by,  watch 
ing,  while  the  flames  curled  and  crept.  Then 
they  crackled  among  the  brush,  and  she  held 
them  down  and  got  excited  over  it,  and  for  an 
instant  forgot  Poole's  Woods.  It  was  a  good 
little  fight  out-of-doors  in  the  hot  sun,  with  a 
stream  of  fire  when  it  caught  something  dry, 
and  then  a  column  of  smoke  that  made  a  tang  in 
the  air  and  stirred  her  blood  deliciously.  Isabel 
was  like  a  creature  of  the  earth  combating 
something  for  the  earth's  good,  and  getting 
hotter  and  more  breathless  every  minute. 

"  "What  you  doin'  there  ?  "  called  a  voice  from 
the  gate. 

She  forgot  the  bonfire,  remembering  her 
father's  hat  and  her  kilted  skirts.  Jim  Bryant 
threw  the  gate  shut  with  a  clang  and  came 
striding  across  the  yard.  He  was  tall  and  brown 
and  sturdy.  Isabel  knew  exactly  how  he  looked 
with  his  brow  set  and  his  blue  eyes  blazing. 


THE  ADVOCATE  281 

"  I  've  got  a  burnfire,"  she  said,  and  raked  the 
harder. 

Jim  came  up  and  took  the  rake  out  of  her 
hand.  It  seemed  to  be  for  no  purpose  save  that 
he  had  to  do  something.  Isabel  put  up  her  head 
and  looked  at  him.  There  was  hostility  in  her 
glance,  but  it  was  the  challenge  of  sex  that 
meets  and  measures. 

"  I  see  the  smoke  comin'  up  over  this  way,  an' 
I  thought  there  was  the  devil  to  pay,"  he  said 
harshly.  "What  you  carryin'  on  like  this  for?" 

"  I  ain't  carryin'  on,"  said  Isabel,  from  tense 
lips.  "  This  is  our  land,  and  I  guess  I  can  have 
a  burnfire  if  I  want  to." 

"Why  ain't  you  at  Poole's  Woods?"  The 
fire  was  dying  down  a  little,  but  one  persistent 
flame  moved  like  a  snake  in  the  dry  stubble, 
and  he  savagely  stamped  it  out.  "  Why  ain't 
you  ?  I  come  after  you." 

"  You  did  n't  wait,  did  you  ?  " 

"Old  Mis'  Drake  said  you  were  goin'  with 
Briggs." 

"  Did  I  tell  you  so  ?  " 

He  weakened  a  little. 

"  N-no !  But  she  said  you'd  been  down  talkin' 
it  over  an'  Oliver  'd  gone  to  ketch  the  colt.  She 
offered  me  the  spy-glass." 

Isabel's  lips  had  a  little  line  of  white  about 
them.  She  looked  full  at  him  now. 


282          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  Did  you  take  it,  Jim  ?  " 

"  Take  it?  No ! "  he  roared  at  her.  "  Do  you 
think  I'd  do  a  thing  like  that  ?  " 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other,  glance 
holding  glance,  their  eyes  blazing.  Suddenly  he 
threw  the  rake  as  if  he  had  been  throwing  down 
a  shield  and  held  out  his  arms  to  her.  Isabel 
walked  into  them,  and  while  they  kissed,  her 
father's  straw  hat  slipped  back  over  her  shoul 
ders,  and  she  laughed  and  never  missed  the 
fluffy  headgear  lying  in  her  room  up-stairs, 
waiting  for  Poole's  Woods.  Suddenly  she  re 
membered  that  they  were  out  in  the  broad  sun 
light,  in  sight  of  the  road,  and  then  she  be 
thought  her  that  all  the  town  had  gone  to  Poole's 
Woods  to  leave  them  the  world  alone  to  kiss 
in.  She  remembered,  too,  that  old  Mrs.  Drake's 
spy-glass  might  be  trained  on  them  at  that 
moment. 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  said,  and  laughed. 

"Don't  care  for  what  ?"  asked  her  lover,  his 
lips  at  her  ear. 

"For  anything.  There!  let  me  go.  Here's 
some  more  fire  in  the  grass." 

They  stamped  and  raked  quite  soberly  for  a 
moment,  and  then  Isabel  began  to  laugh  again. 
She  looked  wild  and  beautiful  in  her  fight  with 
the  earth  and  her  own  heart.  Jim  laughed  a 
little,  too. 


THE  ADVOCATE  283 

"What  is  it,  Bell?"  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  in  the  ecstasy  of 
happiness.  "I  guess  I  like  a  burnfire." 

When  it  died  still  lower,  they  walked  toward 
the  house,  hand  in  hand,  and  sat  there  on  the 
steps  watching  it. 

"Well,"  said  Bryant,  smiling  at  her,  "you 
want  to  go  to  Poole's  Woods  ?  " 

Isabel  smiled  back. 

"  I  guess  so,"  she  said.  "  We  can  be  there  by 
luncheon-time." 

"  All  right.  I  '11  go  home  an'  harness  up." 
Half-way  down  the  path  he  stopped  and  turned. 
"Say,  Isabel!" 

She  answered  from  the  porch  on  her  way  in 
to  don  the  muslin  dress. 

"What  is  it?" 

"You  never  told  me  what  you  were  down 
there  for." 

"Where?" 

"  Down  to  Oliver's." 

She  shook  her  head  and  laughed. 

"No,  nor  I  sha'n't,  either."  His  brows  were 
coming  together.  "  'T  was  an  errand,"  she  called 
to  him.  "  It  wra'n't  mine,  either.  You  got  to 
know  ?  " 

Again  they  stood  looking  at  each  other,  this 
time  with  a  steady  challenge  as  if  more  things 
were  decided  than  the  moment's  victory.  Then 


284          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

suddenly,  as  if  in  the  same  breath,  they  smiled 
again,  and  Bryant  gave  her  a  little  nod. 

"  Get  your  things  on,"  he  called.  "  "We  're 
goin'  to  Poole's  Woods.  That  ?s  all  I  want  to 
know." 


THE  MASQUERADE 

THE  summer  boarders  had  gone,  and  Marsh- 
mead  was  settling  down  to  a  peace  enhanced 
by  affluence.  Though  the  exodus  had  come 
earlier  than  usual  this  year,  because  the  Hiltons 
were  sailing  for  Germany  and  the  Dennys  due 
at  the  Catskills,  not  one  among  their  country 
entertainers  had  complained.  Marshmead  ap 
proved,  from  a  careless  dignity,  when  people 
brought  money  into  the  town,  but  it  always  re 
lapsed  into  its  own  customs  with  a  contented 
sigh  after  the  jolt  of  inexplicable  requirements 
and  imported  ways.  This  year  had  been  an  es 
pecially  fruitful  one.  The  boarders  had  given  a 
fancy  dress  party  with  amateur  vaudeville  com 
bined,  for  the  benefit  of  the  old  church,  and 
Martha  Waterman  now,  as  she  toiled  up  the 
hill  to  a  meeting  of  the  Circle,  held  the  resultant 
check  in  one  of  her  plump  freckled  hands. 
Martha  was  chief  mover  in  all  capable  deeds, 
a  warm,  silent  woman  who  called  children 
"  lamb,"  plied  them  with  pears,  and  knew  the 
inner  secrets  of  rich  cookery.  She  was  portly, 
and  her  thin  skin  gave  confirmation  to  her  own 
frequent  complaint  of  feeling  the  heat;  but 


286          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOES 

though  the  day  had  been  more  sultry  than  it 
was,  she  would  not  have  foregone  the  pleasure 
of  endowing  the  Circle  with  its  new  accession 
toward  the  meeting-house  fund. 

The  Circle  had  been  founded  in  war  time  when 
women  scraped  lint  and  sewed  with  a  passionate 
zeal.  Martha  was  a  little  girl  then,  wondering 
what  the  excitement  was  really  about,  though, 
since  it  had  lasted  through  her  own  brief  period, 
she  took  it  that  war  was  a  permanent  condition., 
like  bread  or  weather.  Now  she  often  mused 
over  those  old  days  and  thought  how  marvelous 
it  was  that  she  could  ever  have  been  young 
enough  to  see  no  significance  in  that  time  of 
blood  and  pain.  In  these  middle  years  of  hers 
the  Circle  was  a  different  affair,  but  it  kept  its 
loyal  being.  To-day  it  met  in  the  basement  of 
the  church,  and  there,  when  Martha  went  plod 
ding  in,  nearly  all  the  other  members  were  as 
sembled.  Sometimes  they  sewed  for  sufferers 
from  varying  disasters,  but  to-day  their  hands 
were  idle,  and  a  buzz  of  talk  saluted  her.  They 
looked  up  as  one  woman  when  she  entered. 

"  There  she  is,"  called  two  or  three,  and  Lydia 
"Vesey,  the  little  dressmaker,  as  sharp  and  un 
expected  as  the  slash  of  her  own  too-impulsive 
scissors,  came  forward  with  a  run. 

"  You  got  it  ?  "  she  inquired. 

Mrs.  Waterman  laughed  richly,  and  set  her 


THE  MASQUERADE  287 

umbrella  in  the  corner.  Then,  still  holding  one 
hand  closed  upon  the  check,  she  untied  her  hat 
and  fanned  herself  with  it  during  the  relief  of 
sinking  into  a  seat. 

"  Do  let  me  get  my  breath,"  she  besought,  yet 
as  if  she  prolonged  the  moment  for  the  sake  of 
the  dramatic  weight  the  tale  demanded.  "  Seems 
if  I  never  experienced  such  a  day  as  this.  It's 
hotter  'n  any  fall  I  ever  see." 

"  You  look  very  warm,  Martha,"  said  Ellen 
Bayliss,  in  her  gentle  way.  She  was  sitting  by  the 
window,  bending  over  an  embroidered  square, 
the  sun  on  her  soft  curls  and  delicate  cheek  un 
veiling  the  look  of  middle  life,  yet  doing  some 
thing  kindly,  too;  for  though  he  showed  the 
withered  texture  of  her  skin,  he  brought  out 
the  last  fleck  of  gold  in  her  hair,  and  balanced 
sadness  with  some  bloom.  Ellen  had  been  ac 
counted  a  beauty,  and  her  niece  Nellie  was  a 
beauty  now,  of  a  more  radiant  type.  She  was 
the  rose  of  life,  but  aunt  Ellen  had  the  fragrance 
of  roses  in  a  jar. 

"  You  sewin',  Ellen  ?  "  Martha  inquired,  as  if 
she  were  willing  to  shift  the  topic  from  what 
would  exact  continued  speech  from  her,  and  at 
least  defer  her  colleagues'  satisfaction.  "  You  're 
the  only  one  that 's  brought  their  thimble,  I  '11 
be  bound." 

"  It 's  only  this  same  centrepiece,"  Ellen  an- 


288          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

swered,  holding  it  up.  "  Mrs.  Hilton  told  me  if 
I'd  send  it  after  her,  she'd  give  me  three  dollars 
for  it.  I  thought  I  could  turn  the  money  into 
the  fund." 

"  You  got  it  ?  "  Lydia  Yesey  cried  again,  as 
if  she  could  not  possibly  crowd  her  interest 
under,  and  this  time  she  had  reinforcements 
from  without.  Mrs.  Daniel  Pray,  who  was  al 
most  a  giantess  and  bent  laboriously  over  to 
accommodate  her  height  to  her  husband's,  took 
off  her  glasses  and  laid  them  on  her  declivitous 
lap,  the  better  to  fix  Martha  with  her  dull,  small 
eyes. 

"  I  '11  be  whipped  if  I  believe  you  've  got  it, 
after  all,"  she  offered  discontentedly.  "  Mebbe 
they're  goin'  to  send  by  mail." 

Martha  looked  at  her  a  moment,  apparently 
in  polite  consideration,  but  really  wondering,  as 
she  often  did,  if  anything  would  thicken  the 
hair  at  Mrs.  Pray's  parting.  She  frequently,  out 
of  the  strength  of  her  address  and  capability, 
had  these  moments  of  musing  over  what  could 
be  done. 

"Speak  up,  Marthy,  can't  ye?"  ended  Mrs. 
Pray  irritably,  now  putting  on  her  glasses  again 
as  if,  having  tried  one  way,  she  would  essay 
another.  "Didn't  you  see  Mis'  Hilton  at  the 
last,  or  didn't  they  give  it  to  you  ?  " 

Martha  unclosed  her  hand  and  extended  it  to 


THE  MASQUERADE  289 

them  impartially,  the  check,  face  uppermost, 
held  between  thumb  and  finger.  They  bent  for 
ward  to  peer.  Some  rose  and  looked  over  the 
shoulders  of  the  nearer  ones,  and  glasses  were 
sought  and  hastily  mounted  upon  noses. 

"  Well,  there,"  said  Mrs.  Hanscom,  the  wife 
of  the  grain-dealer  who  always  stipulated  for 
cash  payment  before  he  would  deliver  a  bag  at 
the  barn  door,  "  it  ain't  bills,  as  I  see." 

"  It 's  just  as  good."  Ellen  Bayliss  looked  up 
from  her  sewing  to  throw  this  in,  with  her  air 
of  deprecating  courtesy.  "  A  check 's  the  same 
as  money  any  day.  I  have  two,  twice  a  year, 
from  my  stock.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  write 
your  name  on  the  back  and  turn  'em  into  the 
bank." 

"  Well,  all  I  want  to  know  is,  what 's  it  come 
to  ?  "  Lydia  Yesey  said.  "  Course  it 's  just  the 
same  as  money.  I've  had  checks  myself,  days 
past.  Once  I  done  over  Miss  Tenny's  black 
mohair  an'  sent  it  after  her,  an'  she  mailed  me 
back  a  check,  —  same  day,  I  guess  it  was.  How 
much 's  it  come  to,  Marthy  ?  " 

"See  for  yourself,"  said  Martha.  She  laid  it, 
still  face  upward,  on  the  table.  "It's  as  much 
yours  as  'tis  mine,  I  guess,  if  I  be  treasurer. 
Forty-three  dollars  an'  twenty-seven  cents." 

There  was  a  chorused  sigh. 

"  Well,  I  call  that  a  good  haul,"  said  Ann 


290          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

Bartlett,  whose  father  had  been  sexton  for  thirty- 
eight  years,  and  who,  in  consequence,  looked  upon 
herself  as  holding  some  subtly  intimate  relation 
with  the  church,  so  that  when  the  old  carpet 
was  "  auctioned  off "  she  insisted  on  darning 
the  breadths  before  they  were  put  up  for  sale. 
"  What  money  can  do !  Just  one  evenin',  an' 
them  few  folks  dressed  up  to  kill  an'  payin'  that 
in  for  their  ice-cream  an'  tickets  at  the  door." 

"We  made  the  ice-cream,"  said  Martha,  as 
one  stating  a  fact  to  be  justly  remembered. 

"  We  paid  ourselves  in,  too,"  said  Lydia 
sharply.  "  I  guess  our  money 's  good  as  any 
body's,  an'  I  guess  it  '11  count  up  as  quick  an'  go 
as  fur." 

"  Course  it  will,"  said  Martha,  in  a  mollifying 
tone.  "  But 't  is  an  easy  way  of  makin'  a  dollar, 
just  as  Ann  says.  There  they  got  up  a  fancy- 
dress  party  an'  enjoyed  themselves,  an'  it's 
brought  in  all  this.  'T  wa'n't  hard  work  for  'em. 
'T  was  a  kind  o'  play." 

"  Well,  I  guess  they  did  enjoy  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Pray  gloomily.  She  had  settled  her  glasses  on 
her  nose  again,  and  now,  with  her  finger,  went 
following  the  bows  round  under  her  hair,  to  be 
sure  they  "  canted  right."  "  I  guess  they  would 
n't  ha'  done  it  if  they  hadn't." 

"  There 's  one  thing  Mis'  Hilton  says  to  me 
when  she  passed  me  the  check,"  Martha  brought 


THE  MASQUERADE  291 

out,  in  sudden  recollection.  "  (  Now  here 's  this 
money  we  made  for  you,'  she  says.  <  Use  it  any 
ways  you  want,  so 's  you  use  it  for  the  church. 
But,'  she  says,  'why  don't  you  make  up  your 
minds  now  you'll  give  some  kind  of  an  enter 
tainment  after  we're  gone,  a  harvest  festival,' 
she  says,  <  or  the  like  o'  that  V  Then  you  could 
do  your  paintin','  she  says,  *  an'  get  you  a  new 
melodeon  for  the  Sunday  School,  or  whatever 
't  is  you  want.  We  've  showed  you  the  way,' 
she  says.  '  Now  you  go  ahead  an'  see  what  you 
can  do.": 

Lydia  Vesey  looked  as  if  she  might,  in  an 
other  instant,  cap  the  suggestion  by  a  satirical 
climax,  and  Ellen  Bayliss  rested  her  sewing 
hand  on  her  knee  and  glanced  thoughtfully  about 
as  if  to  ask,  in  her  still,  earnest  way,  what  her 
own  part  could  be  in  such  an  enterprise.  But  a 
step  came  hurrying  down  the  stairs,  the  step  of 
a  heavy  body  lightly  carried,  and  Caddie  Mus- 
grave  came  in  at  a  flying  pace.  It  was  Caddie 
who,  with  the  help  of  her  silent  husband,  kept 
the  big  boarding-house  on  the  hill.  No  need  to 
talk  to  her  about  summer  boarders,  she  was  wont 
to  say.  She  knew  'em,  egg  an'  bird.  Take  'em 
as  folks  an'  nobody  was  better,  but 't  was  board 
ers  she  meant.  They  might  seem  different,  fust 
sight,  but  shake  'em  up  in  a  peck  measure,  an' 
you  could  n't  tell  t'  other  from  which. 


292          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"  I  guess  you  're  tired,"  said  Ellen  Bayliss,  in 
her  gentle  fashion,  taking  a  stolen  glance  from 
the  embroidery  and  returning  again  at  once  to 
her  careful  stitches. 

"  Tired ! "  said  Caddie.  She  dropped  into  a 
chair  and  leaned  her  head  back  with  ostentatious 
weariness.  "  I  guess  I  be.  An'  yet  I  told  Charlie 
'fore  they  went  I  never  'd  say  I  was  tired  again 
in  all  my  born  days,  only  let  me  get  rid  of  'em 
this  time." 

"  How  'd  you  manage  with  'em  this  season  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Pray,  as  if  her  question  concerned 
the  importation  of  some  alien  plant. 

Caddie  opened  her  eyes  and  came  to  a  pos 
ture  more  adapted  to  sustaining  her  end  of  the 
conversational  burden. 

"  Why,  they  're  all  right,"  she  owned,  "  good 
as  gold,  take  'em  on  their  own  ground.  I  found 
out  they  were  good  as  gold  that  winter  I  went 
up  an'  passed  Sunday  with  Mis'  Denny.  But 
take  'em  together,  boardin',  an'  what  one  don't 
think  of  t'other  will.  This  summer  't  was  grow- 
in'  fleshy,  an'  if  they  didn't  harp  on  that  one 
string  —  well,  suz  !  " 

Mrs.  Pray  nodded  her  head  solemnly. 

"  I  said  that,"  she  returned.  "  I  said  that  to 
Jonathan  when  I  come  home  from  the  Circle  the 
day  they  was  here  talkin'  over  the  fund  an'  set- 
tlin'  what  they  'd  do.  I  come  home  an'  says  to 


THE  MASQUERADE  293 

Jonathan  wipin'  his  hands  on  the  roller-towel 
there  by  the  back  door,  I  says,  <  What 's  every 
body  got  ag'inst  growin'  old,  an'  growin'  hefty, 
too,  for  that  matter  ?  '  I  says.  '  Seems  if  folks 
don't  talk  about  nothin'  else.' r 

Martha  put  in  her  assuaging  word. 

"  Well,  I  guess  human  natur'  ain't  changed 
much.  I  guess  nobody  ever  hankered  after  get- 
tin'  stiff  j'ints  an'  losin'  their  eyesight  an'  so. 
'T  would  be  a  queer  kind  of  a  shay  that  was 
lookin'  for'ard  to  goin'  to  pieces  while  't  was 
travelin'  along.  Mis'  Denny's  niece  that  reads  in 
public  read  me  that  piece  once.  I  thought  'twas 
about  the  cutest  that  ever  was." 

Ellen  Bayliss  had  laid  her  sewing  on  her 
knee,  and  now  she  looked  up  in  an  impulsive 
haste,  the  color  in  her  cheeks  and  a  quick  mov 
ing  note  in  her  voice. 

"  It  is  n't  growing  old  that 's  the  trouble.  It 's 
talking  about  it.  Why,  the  night  after  that 
meeting  of  the  Circle  —  "  She  stopped  here,  and 
her  eyes,  widening  and  growing  darker  in  a  way 
they  had,  gave  her  face  almost  a  look  of  terror. 

"What  is  it,  Ellen?"  asked  Martha  Water- 
man  kindly.  "  You  tell  it  right  out." 

"Why,"  said  Ellen,  "this  is  all  'twas.  That 
night  at  supper,  my  Nellie  kept  staring  at  me 
across  the  table.  '  What  is 't,  Nellie  ? '  I  says,  at 
last.  Then  she  colored  up  and  says,  not  as  if  she 


294          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

wanted  to,  but  as  if  she  could  n't  help  it, '  I  hope 
I  shall  look  like  you  sometime,  aunt  Ellen.' 
You  see  how  't  was.  She  meant,  when  she  was 
old.  She  never  in  her  life  had  thought  anything 
about  me  being  old,  and  they  'd  put  it  into  her 
head." 

A  pained  look  settled  upon  her  face,  and  be 
fore  she  took  up  her  sewing  again  she  glanced 
from  one  to  another  as  if  to  ask  them  if  tKey 
really  understood.  There  was  a  little  warm  mur 
mur  of  assent.  Ellen  was  beloved,  and  there 
was,  besides,  a  concurrent  strain  of  sympathy 
through  the  assembly  who  had  known  all  her 
past.  They  remembered  how  Colonel  Hadley 
had  "  gone  with  her "  awhile  when  she  was 
teaching  school  at  District  Number  Four,  and 
how  Ellen  had  faded  out,  the  summer  he  was 
married  to  Kate  Leighton,  of  the  Leightons  on 
the  hill.  Now  his  nephew,  Clyde,  was  going 
with  Ellen's  niece  in  a  way  that  vividly  mirrored 
the  old  time,  and  they  had  heard  that  the  colo 
nel,  when  he  came  for  one  of  his  brief  visits  in 
the  summer,  had  somehow  put  a  check  to  love's 
beginning.  At  least,  Clyde  had  seen  Nellie  only 
once  after  his  uncle  went  away,  and  had  speed 
ily  closed  the  old  house  and  followed  him. 

"  There,  Ellen,"  said  Lydia  Vesey,  from  a 
rare  softness.  "  I  guess  nobody  'd  ever  say 't  you 
was  growin'  old.  They  'd  only  think  you  was 


THE  MASQUERADE  295 

sort  o'  palin'  out,  that 's  all,  same 's  a  white  dress 
is  different  from  a  pink  one." 

"Well,  now,  I'll  say  my  say,  an'  done  with 
it,"  remarked  Caddie  Musgrave,  with  her  ac 
customed  violence.  "  I  'm  ready  to  grow  old 
when  my  time  comes,  an'  if  I  get  there  by  the 
road  some  have  took  before  me,  I  guess  I  sha'n't 
be  put  under  the  sod  by  any  vote  o'  town-meet- 
in'.  As  I  look  back,  seems  to  me  'most  all  them 
that 's  gone  before  us  has  had  their  uses  to  the 
last.  Think  o'  gramma  Jakes !  Why,  she  had  n't 
chick  nor  child  of  her  own  left  to  bless  her,  an' 
see  how  she  was  looked  up  to,  an'  how  every 
little  tot  in  town  thought  he's  made  if  he  could 
be  sent  to  gramma  Jakes's  to  do  an  arrant,  an' 
she  give  him  a  pep'mint  or  a  cooky.  'T  wa'n't 
the  pep'mint  though.  'T  was  because  she  was  a 
real  sweet  nice  old  lady,  that 's  what  't  wTas." 

"  Yes,  I  remember  gramma  Jakes,"  said 
Anna  Dutton,  from  the  corner.  She  was  a 
round,  pink,  near-sighted  little  person,  who  had 
tried  to  cure  herself  of  stammering  by  speaking 
very  slowly,  and  now  scarcely  talked  at  all  be 
cause  she  had  found  how  unwilling  her  more 
robust  and  loquacious  neighbors  were  to  give 
her  the  right  of  way  in  her  hindering  course. 
"  Seems  if  I  could  see  her  now  standin'  there  on 
her  front  porch,  her  little  handkercher  round 
her  neck  —  " 


296          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

Caddie  broke  in  upon  this  reminiscence,  ac 
cording  to  a  custom  so  established  that  Anna 
Dutton  only  kept  her  mouth  open  for  an  instant, 
as  if  the  opportunity  for  speech  might  return  to 
her,  and  then  quite  calmly  settled  back  with  an 
air  of  pleased  attention. 

"  They  're  afraid  o'  gettin'  old  an'  they  're 
afraid  o'  gettin'  fleshy,"  Caddie  announced. 
"  Well,  there 's  no  crime  in  gettin'  old,  now  is 
there  ?  An'  if  there  is,  you  can't  put  a  stop  to 't 
in  any  court  o'  law.  An'  as  for  bein'  fleshy,  if 
you  be  you  be,  an'  you  might  as  well  turn  to  an' 
have  your  clo'es  made  bigger  an'  say  no  more." 

Mrs.  Pray  presented  her  mite  with  her  accus 
tomed  severity  of  gloom,  as  if  she  had  selected 
the  words  most  carefully  and  wished  to  have 
it  understood  that  they  were  the  choicest  she 
had  to  offer. 

"  I  was  fry  in'  doughnuts,  a  week  ago  Satur 
day,  an'  Mis'  Denny  come  along  with  that  lady 
friend  o'  hers  that's  down  here  over  Sunday.  I 
offered  'em  each  a  warm  doughnut,  an'  they 
was  possessed  to  take  it.  They  'd  been  walkin* 
quite  a  spell,  an'  they'd  called  for  a  drink  o' water. 
They  said 't  was  the  time  in  the  forenoon  when 
they  drinked.  But  they  looked  at  the  doughnuts 
good  an'  hard,  an'  they  says :  '  No.  It 's  fatten- 
in','  says  they.  <  It 's  f attenin'.' " 

"  Yes,"  said  Caddie,  with  a  scornful  cadence, 


THE  MASQUERADE  297 

"  I  '11  warrant  they  did.  That 's  what  they  said 
about  two  things  out  o'  three,  soon 's  the  hands 
moved  round  to  meal-time.  '  It 's  f  attenin' ! ' 
Oh,  I'm  sick  an'  tired  to  death  of  it!  I  ain't 
goin'  to  be  dead  till  I  be  dead,  thinkin'  about  it 
all  the  time,  not  if  I  can  keep  my  thoughts  inside 
o'  me  an'  my  tongue  in  my  head.  So  there !  " 

"Well,  now,"  said  Martha  Waterman,  with 
the  mildness  calculated  to  smooth  a  troubled  sit 
uation,  "hadn't  we  better  be  gettin'  round  to 
thinkin'  what  we  '11  do  to  earn  us  a  mite  more 
money  for  the  fund?  Seems  if,  now  they've 
done  so  well  by  us,  we'd  ought  to  up  an'  show 
what  we  can  do  —  a  harvest  festival,  mebbe,  or 
a  sociable  for  all,  an'  charge  for  tickets." 

One  woman  had  not  spoken.  She  was  a  thin, 
dark-eyed  creature,  with  a  gypsy  face  and  a 
quantity  of  gray  hair  wound  about  on  the  top  of 
her  head.  This  was  Isabel  Martin,  who  was  al 
lowed  her  erratic  way  because  she  took  it,  and 
because,  it  had  always  been  said,  "  You  never 
could  tell  what  Isabel  w^ould  do  next,  only  she 
never  meant  the  least  o'  harm."  She  had  come 
softly  in  wrhile  the  others  were  talking,  and 
drawn  Ellen's  work  out  of  her  hand,  with  a 
swift,  pretty  smile  at  her.  "Rest  your  eyes," 
she  had  whispered  her,  and  sat  by,  taking  quick, 
deft  stitches,  while  Ellen,  unconscious  until  then 
of  being  tired,  had  dropped  her  lids  and  leaned 


298          COUNTKY  NEIGHBOKS 

her  head  against  the  casing,  with  a  faint  smile 
of  pleasant  restfulness.  Now  Isabel  put  the 
work  back  into  Ellen's  hand  with  an  accurate 
haste,  and  looked  up  at  the  group  about  her. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,"  she  said.  Her  voice 
thrilled  with  urging  and  suggestive  mischief. 
It  was  a  compelling  voice,  and  they  turned  at 
once. 

"  If  there  ain't  Isabel,"  said  Martha  Water 
man.  "I  didn't  see  you  come  in." 

"  Le'  's  give  a  fancy  dress  party  of  our  own," 
said  Isabel. 

"  Dress  ourselves  up  to  the  nines,  an'  put  on 
paint  an'  powder,  an'  send  off  to  the  stores  to  hire 
clo'es  an'  wigs  ?"  inquired  Caddie.  "  No,  sir, 
none  o'  that  for  me.  I've  seen  what  it  comes  to, 
money  an'  labor,  too.  I  've  just  been  through  it, 
lookin'  on,  an'  I  would  n't  do  it  not  if  the  church 
never  see  a  brush  o'  paint  nor  a  shingle,  an'  we 
had  to  play  on  a  jew's-harp  'stead  of  a  melodeon. 
No!" 

Ann  Bartlett  gave  a  little  murmur  here. 

"  I  never  heard  of  anybody's  bringin'  a  jew's- 
harp  into  the  meetin'-house,"  she  said,  as  a  kind 
of  official  protest.  "  I  guess  we  could  get  us  some 
kind  of  a  melodeon,  'fore  we  done  such  a  thing 
as  that," 

Isabel  was  going  on  in  that  persuasive  voice ;  it 
seemed  to  call  the  town  to  her  to  do  her  bidding. 


THE  MASQUERADE  299 

"No,  we  ain't  goin'  to  do  it  their  way.  We're 
goin'  to  do  it  our  way.  They've  set  out  to  see 
how  young  they  can  be.  Le'  's  see  'f  we  can't 
beat  'em  seein'  how  old  we  can  be.  Le"s  dress 
up  like  the  oldest  that  ever  was,  an'  act  as  if  we 
liked  it." 

The  electrifying  meaning  ran  over  them  like 
a  wave.  They  caught  the  splendid  significance 
of  it.  They  were  to  offer,  in  the  guise  of  jesting, 
their  big  protest  against  the  folly  of  sickening 
over  youth  by  showing  how  fearlessly  they  were 
dancing  on  toward  age.  It  was  more  than  bra 
vado,  more  than  repudiation  of  the  cowards  who 
hesitated  at  the  onward  step.  It  was  loyal  and 
passionate  upholding  of  the  state  of  those  who 
were  already  old,  and  of  those  who  had  contin 
ued  their  beneficent  lives  into  the  time  when 
there  is  no  pleasure  in  the  years,  and  yet  had 
given  honor  and  blessing  through  them  all.  They 
fell  to  laughing  together,  and  two  or  three  cried 
a  little  on  the  heels  of  merriment. 

"I  dunno  what  mother 'd  say,"  whispered 
Hannah  Call,  whose  mother,  old  and  yet  reg 
nant  as  the  best  housekeeper  in  town  and  a 
repository  of  all  the  most  valuable  recipes,  had 
died  that  year.  "  I  guess  she  'd  say  we  was  pos 
sessed." 

"  "We  be,"  said  Isabel  recklessly.  "  That 's  the 
only  fun  there  is,  bein'  possessed.  If  you  ain't 


300          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

one  way,  you'd  better  be  another.  It 's  the  way 's 
the  only  thing  to  see  to." 

"  I  said  I  was  sick  o'  paint  an'  powder,"  said 
Caddie.  "  Well, so  I  be,  but  I'll  put  flour  in  my 
hair  so  't  's  as  white  as  the  drifted  snow.  I  've 
got  aunt  Hope's  gre't  horn  spe'tacles." 

"  I  guess  I  could  borrer  one  o'  gramma  Ells 
worth's  gounds,"  said  Mrs.  Pray.  A  light  rarely 
seen  there  had  come  into  her  dull  eyes.  Isabel, 
with  that  prescience  she  had  about  the  minds  of 
people,  knew  what  it  meant.  Mrs.  Pray,  though 
she  was  contemplating  the  garb  of  eld,  was 
unconsciously  going  back  to  youth  and  the  joy 
of  playing.  "She  ain't  quite  my  figger,  but  I 
guess  't  will  do." 

Lydia  Vesey  gave  her  a  kindly  look,  yet 
scathing  in  its  certainty  of  professional  stric 
tures. 

"  There  ain't  nobody  that  ever  I  see  that 's 
anywhere  near  your  figger,"  she  said,  in  the 
neighborly  ruthlessness  that  was  perfectly  un 
derstood  among  them.  "  But  you  hand  the  gound 
over  to  me,  an'  I  can  fix  it." 

"Everybody  flour  their  hair,"  cried  Isabel, 
with  the  mien  of  inciting  them  deliriously. 

"  Everybody  that 's  got  plates,  take  'em  out," 
added  Martha,  the  administrative,  catching  the 
infection  and  going  a  step  beyond. 

"  Why,  we  can  borrer  every  stitch  we  want," 


THE  MASQUERADE  301 

said  Lydia  "Vesey.  "  Borrer  of  the  dead  an'  bor- 
rer  of  the  livin'.  I  know  every  rag  o'  clo'es  that 's 
been  made  in  this  town,  last  thirty  years.  There 's 
enough  laid  away  in  camphire,  of  them  that's 
gone,  to  fit  out  three-four  old  ladies'  homes." 

"  It  '11  be  like  the  resurrection,"  said  Ellen 
Bayliss,  with  that  little  breathless  catch  in  her 
voice. 

"  What  you  mean  by  that,  Ellen  ? "  asked 
Martha  gently. 

"  I  know  what  she  means,"  said  Isabel,  while 
Ellen,  the  blood  running  into  her  cheeks,  looked 
helplessly  as  if  she  wished  she  had  not  spoken. 
"  She  means  we  're  goin'  to  dress  ourselves  up  in 
the  things  of  them  that 's  gone,  a  good  many  of 
'em,  an'  we  can't  help  takin'  on  the  ways  of  folks 
that  wore  'em.  We  can't  anyways  help  glancin' 
back  an'  kinder  formin'  ourselves  on  old  folks 
we  've  looked  up  to.  Seems  if  the  dead  would 
walk." 

Sometimes  people  shuddered  at  Isabel's  queer 
sayings,  but  at  this  every  one  felt  moved  in  a 
solemn  way.  It  seemed  beautiful  to  have  the 
dead  walk,  so  it  was  in  the  remembrance  of  the 
living. 

"  Shall  we  let  the  men  in  ? "  asked  Caddie 
anxiously.  "  I  dunno  what  they  '11  say  'f  we 
don't."  Her  silent  husband  was  the  close  partner 
of  her  life.  To  Marshmead  it  seemed  as  if  he 


302          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

might  as  well  have  been  born  dumb,  but  Caddie 
never  omitted  tribute  to  his  great  qualities. 

"Mercy,  yes,"  said  Isabel,  "if  they'll  dress 
up.  Not  else.  They  Ve  got  to  be  gran'ther  Gray- 
beards  every  one  of  'em,  or  they  don't  come. 
You  tell  'em  so." 

"  You  going  home,  aunt  Ellen  ? "  came  a 
fresh  voice  from  the  doorway.  "  I  've  been  stay 
ing  after  school,  and  I  thought  maybe  you  'd  be 
tired  and  like  me  to  call  for  you." 

It  was  Nellie  Lake,  a  vision  of  youth  and 
sweet  unconsciousness.  She  stood  there  in  the 
doorway,  hat  and  parasol  in  hand,  crowned  by 
her  yellow  hair,  and  in  the  prettiest  pose  of 
deprecating  grace.  Aunt  Ellen  smiled  at  her 
with  loving  pride,  and  yet  wistfully,  too.  Nellie 
had  called  for  her  many  times,  just  to  walk  home 
together,  but  never  because  aunt  Ellen  might 
be  tired.  The  infection  of  age  was  in  the  air,  and 
Nellie  Lake  had  caught  it. 

"  Come  in,  Nellie,"  she  said.  "  No,  I  don't 
feel  specially  tired,  but  maybe  I  '11  go  along  in  a 
minute." 

"  Want  to  come  to  an  old  folks'  party  ?  "  called 
Isabel,  who  was  reading  all  these  thoughts  as 
swiftly  as  if  they  were  signals  to  herself  alone. 
"  Want  to  dress  up,  an'  flour  your  hair,  an'  put 
on  spe'tacles,  an'  come  an'  play  with  us  old 
folks  ?  " 


THE  MASQUERADE  303 

The  girl's  face  creased  up  delightfully. 

"  A  fancy  dress ! "  she  said.  "  What  can  I 
be?" 

"You'll  be  an  old  lady,"  said  Isabel,  "or 
you  won't  come." 

"  Is  it  for  the  fund  ?  "  asked  Nellie. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  it 's  for  the  fund,  some," 
Isabel  conceded.  "  But  take  it  by  an'  large,  it 's 
for  fun." 

The  night  of  the  masquerade  was  soft  and 
still,  lighted  by  the  harvest  moon.  Everywhere 
the  fragrance  of  grapes  enriched  the  air,  and 
the  dusty  bitterness  of  things  ripening.  The 
little  town  hall  was  gay  with  lights,  a  curious 
blending  of  the  west  and  east;  for  the  boarders 
had  left  Japanese  lanterns  behind  them,  and 
their  grotesque  prettiness  contrasted  strangely 
with  bowery  goldenrod  and  asters  and  the  red 
of  maple  leaves.  Colonel  Hadley,  standing  a 
moment  at  the  doorway  in  his  evening  walk, 
this  first  night  of  his  stay,  when  he  had  come 
with  his  nephew  to  look  out  some  precious  old 
books  in  the  attic,  and  perhaps  the  more  actually 
to  draw  Clyde  away  again  after  the  errand  was 
done,  thought  he  had  never  seen  such  abandon 
ment  to  a  wild  pleasure,  even  in  his  early  days 
at  Marshmead.  For  it  was  pleasure,  though  it 
seemed  to  be  the  festival  of  the  old.  Men  and 


304          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOES 

women  bent  with  years  and  yet  straightening 
themselves  when  their  muscles  ached,  were 
promenading  the  hall,  not  sedately,  according  to 
the  wont  of  Marshmead  social  gatherings,  to  ful 
fill  a  terrifying  rite,  but  gayly,  as  if  only  by  pre 
meditation  did  they  withstand  the  beckoning  of 
the  dance. 

At  the  end  of  the  hall,  in  a  bower  of  light  and 
greenery,  sat  a  row  of  others  who  were  appar 
ently  set  apart  for  some  honor  or  special  service. 
From  time  to  time  the  ranks  broke,  and  one 
group  after  another  stayed  to  talk  with  them, 
and  always  with  the  air  of  giving  pleasure  by 
their  deference  and  heartening.  Suddenly  the 
colonel's  eyes  smarted  with  the  sudden  tears  of 
a  recognition  which  seemed  to  touch  not  only 
life  as  it  innocently  rioted  here  to-night,  but  all 
life,  his  own  in  the  midst  of  it.  At  once  he  knew. 
These  were  the  very  old,  and  those  who  had 
lived  through  their  fostering  were  paying  them 
beautiful  tribute. 

At  that  moment  his  nephew,  boyishly  changed, 
but  not  disguised,  in  old  Judge  Hadley's 
coat  and  knee-breeches,  stepped  out  of  the 
moving  line,  a  lady  with  him,  and  came  to  him. 
Clyde,  too,  was  flushed  with  the  strangeness  of 
it  all,  and  the  joyous  certainty  that  now  for  an 
evening,  if  only  that,  Nellie  Lake  was  with  him. 
The  colonel  looked  at  her  and  looked  again,  and 


THE  MASQUERADE  305 

she  dropped  her  eyes  in  a  pretty,  serious  mod 
esty. 

"  Ellen !  "  he  said  involuntarily. 

Then  she  laughed. 

"  That 's  my  aunt,"  she  told  him.  "  I  'm  Elinor. 
I  'm  jSTell.  I  tried  to  look  like  auntie.  I  guess  I 
do." 

"  No,"  said  the  colonel  sharply,  "  you  don't 
look  like  Ellen  Bayliss.  You've  made  up  too 
old." 

Yet  she  had  not,  and  he  knew  it.  She  had 
only  put  a  little  powder  on  her  hair  and  drawn 
its  curling  richness  into  a  seemly  knot.  She  had 
whitened  the  bloom  of  her  cheeks,  and  taken 
on  that  little  pathetic  droop  of  the  shoulders  he 
remembered  in  Ellen  Bayliss  the  day  he  saw 
her  in  his  last  hurried  trip  to  Marshmead.  He 
had  not  spoken  to  her  then.  She  had  passed  the 
station  as  he  was  driving  away,  and  he  had  felt 
a  pang  he  deadened  with  some  anodyne  of  grim 
endurance,  to  see  how  youth  could  wilt  into  a 
dowerless  middle  age. 

"I  guess  you  haven't  seen  aunt  Ellen,"  said 
Nellie  innocently.  "  I  'm  just  as  she  is  every 
day,  but  she 's  made  up  to-night  to  be  like 
grandma,  or  the  picture  of  aunt  Sue  that  died." 

There  she  was.  She  had  left  the  moving  line 
for  a  moment,  and  the  minister,  in  robe  and 
bands  of  an  ancient  time,  devised  by  Ann  Bart- 


306          COUNTKY  NEIGHBOES 

lett  and  made  by  Lydia  "Vesey,  had  bowed  and 
left  her  for  some  of  his  multifarious  social  claims. 
A  chair  was  beside  her,  but  she  only  rested  one 
hand  on  the  back  of  it  and  leaned  her  head 
against  the  wall.  She  was  in  a  faded  brocade 
unearthed  from  some  dark  corner  Lydia  Yesey 
knew  the  secret  of,  and  she  was  age  itself, 
beautiful,  delicate,  acquiescent  age,  all  sadness 
and  a  wistful  grace.  The  colonel  looked  at  her, 
savagely  almost,  with  the  pain  of  it,  and  then 
back  again  at  the  girl  who  seemed  to  be  pictur 
ing  the  first  sad  stage  of  undefended  maiden 
hood.  At  that  moment  he  knew  he  had  put 
something  wonderful  away  from  him,  those 
years  ago,  when  he  ceased  to  court  the  look  in 
Ellen's  eyes  and  turned  to  a  robuster  fortune. 
At  the  time,  he  had  told  himself,  in  his  way  of 
escaping  the  difficult  issue,  that  the  pang  of 
leaving  her  was  his  alone.  She,  in  her  innocence 
of  love,  could  hardly  feel  the  death  of  what  lived 
so  briefly.  Now,  as  it  sometimes  happened  when 
his  anodyne  ceased  to  work,  he  knew  he  had 
snipped  the  blossom  of  her  life  and  she  had 
borne  no  fruit  of  ecstasy;  and  in  the  instant  of 
sharp  regret  it  came  upon  him  that  no  other 
woman,  through  him,  should  tread  the  way  of 
love  denied.  He  stooped  to  Nellie,  standing 
there  before  him,  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 
Whether  in  this  blended  love  and  pain  he  was 


THE  MASQUERADE  307 

kissing  Ellen  or  the  girl,  he  did  not  know,  but 
he  saw  how  Clyde  started  and  grew  luminous, 
and  what  it  meant  to  both  of  them. 

"  How  did  you  know  it  ?  "  Clyde  was  asking. 
"  We  are  engaged.  I  wrote  to  her  to-day.  I  was 
going  to  tell  you,  but  I  couldn't.  You  knew  it, 
didn't  you?  You're  a  brick." 

The  girl  flushed  through  her  powder,  and  her 
eyes  sent  him  a  starry  gratitude.  But  now  the 
colonel  hardly  cared  whether  they  had  acted 
without  his  knowledge  or  whether  they  were 
grateful  for  his  sanction.  He  and  they  and  Ellen 
Bayliss  seemed  to  be  in  a  world  alone,  bound 
together  by  ties  that  might  last  —  would  last, 
he  knew;  but  the  mist  cleared  away  from  his 
eyes,  and  the  vision  of  life  to  come  faded,  and 
he  saw  things  as  they  were  before,  and  chiefly 
Ellen  standing  there  unconscious  of  him.  He 
walked  over  to  her. 

"  Ellen,"  he  said  bluffly,  holding  out  his  hand, 
"  I  've  got  only  a  minute,  but  I  want  to  speak  to 
you  if  I  don't  to  anybody  else." 

She  straightened  and  gazed  at  him,  star 
tled  out  of  her  part  into  a  life  half  joy,  half 
terror.  He  had  taken  her  hand  and  held  it 
warmly. 

"Ellen,"  he  said,  "they're  engaged,  that  boy 
and  girl.  Did  you  know  it  ?" 

"No,"  she  answered  faintly,  but  with  candor. 


308          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"No.  I've  discouraged  it.  I  thought  of  you." 
She  paused,  too  kind  to  him  for  more. 

"I  didn't  know,"  he  said.  "I  hadn't  seen 
her.  How  should  I  know  she  was  like  you  ?  How 
should  I  know  if  he  lost  her  he  mightn't  be 
making  a  mistake  ?  Yes,  they  're  engaged.  I 
sha'n't  be  at  the  wedding.  I'm  going  abroad, 
but  I  shall  send  my  blessing.  To  you,  too,  Ellen. 
Good-by.  God  bless  you." 

Then  he  had  walked  out  of  the  hall,  as  alien, 
with  his  middle-aged  robustness,  as  the  mortal 
in  fairy  revelry;  and  Ellen,  knowing  her  towns 
people  were  looking  at  her  in  kindly  interest, 
stood  with  dignity  and  yet  a  curious  new  con 
sciousness  of  treasured  happiness,  as  if  she  had 
a  secret  to  think  over,  and  a  solving  of  perplex 
ities. 

Isabel  Martin  dropped  out  of  her  place,  where 
she  had  been  talking  with  Andrew  Hall,  and, 
forgetting  in  her  haste  the  consistency  of  her 
part,  ran  over  to  her.  Isabel,  out  of  her  abiding 
mischief,  had  dressed  herself  for  a  dullard's 
part.  She  had  thought  at  first  of  being  an  old 
witch-woman  and  telling  fortunes,  but  instead 
she  had  put  on  pious  black  alpaca  and  a  porten 
tous  cap,  and  dropped  her  darting  glances.  To 
Andrew  Hall,  who  was  a  portly  Quaker  in  the 
dress  of  uncle  Ephraim  long  since  dead,  she 
seemed  as  sweet  as  girlhood  and  as  restful  as  his 


THE  MASQUERADE  309 

own  mother.  Andrew  had  been  her  servitor  for 
almost  as  many  years  as  they  had  lived ;  but  she 
had  so  flouted  him,  so  called  upon  him  for  im 
possible  chivalries,  out  of  the  wantonness  of  her 
fancy,  that  he  had  sometimes  confided  to  him 
self,  in  the  darkest  of  nights  when  he  woke  to 
think  of  her,  that  Isabel  Martin  was  enough  to 
make  you  hang  yourself,  and  he  wished  he  never 
had  set  eyes  on  her.  Yet  she  was  the  major  part 
of  his  life,  and  Andrew  knew  it.  Now  he  followed 
her  more  slowly,  and  was  by  at  the  instant  of 
her  saying,  — 

"  O  Ellen,  you  could  n't  go  over  across  the 
orchard,  could  you,  an'  see  if  Maggie  L.  's  got 
the  water  boilin'  for  the  coffee  ?  I  'm  'most 
afraid  to  go  alone." 

Ellen,  waking  from  her  dream,  looked  at  her 
and  smiled.  She  knew  Isabel's  tender  purposes. 
This  was  meant  to  take  her  away  from  curious 
though  tolerant  eyes  and  give  her  a  moment  to 
wipe  out  the  world  of  dreaming  for  the  world 
of  men. 

"  No,"  she  said  softly.  "  You  don't  need  to." 

"  You  let  me  go,"  said  Andrew  gallantly.  "  I 
can  see  if  it 's  bilin'  an'  come  back  an'  tell  ye." 

"  You !  "  said  Isabel,  abjuring  her  disguise,  to 
rally  him.  "  You  'd  be  afraid.  Come,  Ellen." 

She  linked  an  arm  in  Ellen's,  and  falling  at 
once  into  her  part  of  sober  age,  paced  with  her 


310          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

from  the  hall.  Andrew,  constrained  in  a  way  he 
hardly  understood  himself,  was  following  them, 
but  in  their  woman's  community  of  silent  under 
standing  they  took  no  notice  of  him.  Outside, 
the  night  was  soft  and  welcoming,  unreal  after 
the  light  and  color,  an  enchanted  wilderness  of 
moonlight  splendor.  They  had  crossed  the  road 
to  the  bench  under  the  old  poplar,  and  there 
Ellen  sat  down  and  drew  a  breath  of  excitement 
and  gladness  to  be  free  to  think.  The  moonlight 
seemed  still  brighter,  sifting  down  the  sky- 
spaces,  and  the  two  women  together  looked  up  at 
it  through  the  poplar  branches  and  were  exalted 
by  that  inexplicable  sense  of  the  certainty  that 
things  come  true.  Dreams — that  was  what  their 
minds  were  seeking  passionately  —  and  dreams 
come  true. 

"  Ain't  it  wonderful  ?  "  Isabel  asked  softly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ellen,  in  the  same  hushed  tone, 
"  it 's  wonderful." 

"I'll  leave  you  here  by  yourself  an'  run  acrost 
the  orchard,"  said  Isabel,  in  her  other  careless 
voice.  "  When  I  come  back,  I  '11  stop  here  an' 
we  '11  go  in  together.  Why,  Andrew,  you  here  ?  " 

"  You  said  you  was  afraid,"  he  answered.  "  I  '11 
go  acrost  with  you." 

"All  right,"  said  Isabel,  with  her  kindest 
laugh,  not  the  teasing  one  that  made  him  hate 
her  while  he  thought  how  bright  and  dear  she 


THE  MASQUERADE  311 

was.  "  Come  take  gran'ma  acrost  the  orchard. 
Don't  let  anything  happen  to  her." 

They  stepped  over  the  wall  and  made  their 
way  along  the  little  path  by  the  grape  arbor. 
The  fragrance  of  fruit  was  sweet,  and  the  world 
seemed  filled  with  it. 

"It's  a  pretty  time  o'  year,"  said  Andrew 
tremblingly. 

"  Yes." 

"  A  kind  of  a  time  same 's  this  is  to-night 
makes  it  seem  as  if  life  was  pretty  short.  Be 
past  before  you  know  it." 

"Yes." 

She,  too,  spoke  tremulously,  and  his  heart 
went  out  to  her. 

"  O  Isabel,"  he  said,  "  when  you  're  like  this, 
same  as  you  are  to-night,  there  ain't  a  livin' 
creatur'  that 's  as  nice  as  you  be." 

Isabel  laughed.  It  was  an  echo  of  her  flouting 
laugh,  yet  there  was  a  little  catch  in  the  middle 
of  it. 

"  There ! "  he  said,  with  discontentment.  "  Now 
you  're  just  as  you  be  half  the  time,  an'  I  could 
shake  you  for  it.  Sometimes  seems  to  me  I  could 
kill  you." 

"  Why  don't  you  ?  "  Isabel  asked  him,  softly 
yet  teasingly  too,  in  a  way  that  suddenly  made 
her  dearer.  "If  you  don't  see  no  use  o'  my 
livin',  why  don't  you  kill  me  ?  " 


312          COUNTEY  ISTEIGHBOKS 

"  What  you  cryin'  for  ?  "  Andrew  besought 
her,  in  an  agony  of  trouble.  "  O  Isabel,  what 
you  cryin'  for  ?  " 

"I  ain't  cryin',"  she  said,  "  but  if  I  am  I  guess 
it's  for  Ellen  Bayliss,  an'  things  — "  She  had 
never  heard  of  "the  tears  of  mortal  things," 
and  so  she  could  not  tell  him. 

"  Ellen  Bayliss?  "What 's  the  matter  of  Ellen 
Bayliss?" 

"  Oh,  she  gets  tired  so  quick,  that's  all." 

"  Don't  you  get  tired,"  said  Andrew.  "  Don't 
you  let  anything  happen  to  you.  O  Isabel !  " 

The  moonlight  and  the  fragrance  and  old  love 
constrained  them,  and  they  had  kissed  each  other, 
and  each  knew  they  were  to  live  together  now, 
and  sharpness  would  be  put  away  perhaps;  or, 
if  it  were  not  quite,  Andrew  would  understand, 
knowing  other  things,  too,  and  smile  at  it. 

When  they  went  back  to  the  bench  Ellen  was 
gone,  but  in  the  hall  they  found  her  dancing 
with  Clyde,  and  almost,  it  seemed,  clad  in  the 
flying  mantle  of  her  youth. 

"It's  Virginny  reel,"  cried  Andrew,  the  in 
fection  of  the  night  upon  him.  "  There 's  another 
set  here.  Come." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Isabel,  her  hand  upon 
his  arm.  "  Look  at  the  platform.  Where  's  the  old 
folks  gone  ?  " 

The  platform  was  deserted.  The  oldf oiks,  too, 


THE  MASQUERADE  313 

were  dancing.  Martha  Waterman  caught  the 
recognition  of  it  in  Isabel's  eyes,  pointed  at  the 
empty  seats  of  eld,  and  nodded  gayly.  She  sped 
out  of  her  place  and,  losing  no  step,  danced  up 
to  Isabel  and  Andrew. 

"  I  dunno  which 's  the  youngest,  old  or  young," 
she  cried,  "nor  they  don't  either.  We're  goin' 
to  have  some  country  dancin'  an'  then  serve  the 
coffee  an'  sing  '  Auld  Lang  Syne,'  an'  it 's  my 
opinion  we  sha'n't  be  home  'fore  two  o'clock. 
Ain't  it  just  grand ! " 


A  POETESS  IN  SPRING 

JERRY  FREELASTDS  felt  that  the  day  was  not 
suitably  ended  if,  after  tidying  up  the  kitchen 
and  practicing  "  The  Harp  That  Once "  and 
«  Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night "  on  his  fiddle,  he  did 
not  go  across  the  fields  to  Marietta  Martin's  and 
compare  the  moment's  mood  with  her,  either  in 
the  porch  or  at  her  fireside,  according  to  the 
season.  They  lived,  each  alone,  in  a  stretch  of 
meadow  land  just  off  the  main  road,  and  nobody 
knew  how  many  of  their  evenings  they  spent 
together,  or,  at  this  middle  stage  in  their  lives, 
would  have  drawn  romantic  conclusions  if  the 
tale  of  them  had  been  told. 

In  his  youth  Jerry  had  been  a  solitary,  given 
to  wandering  "  by  the  river's  brim,"  as  he  liked 
to  say,  thinking  of  poetry  and  his  fiddle.  Mari 
etta,  even  at  that  time,  had  been  learning  tai 
loring  to  support  her  mother,  and  she  looked 
upon  Jerry  with  unstinted  admiration  as  too  dis 
tinctly  set  apart  by  high  attainments  ever  to  be 
considered  a  common  earthly  swain.  But  Jerry 
did  all  his  duties  as  if  he  were  not  gifted.  He 
carried  on  the  small  farm,  and,  after  his  sister 
married  and  went  away,  nursed  his  mother  until 


A  POETESS  IN  SPRING         315 

her  death  — "  as  handy  as  a  woman,"  so  the 
neighbors  said.  Yet  he  knew  that  all  this  tribute 
to  the  lower  life  was  only  something  mysteri 
ously  decreed,  perhaps  to  ballast  the  soul  lest  it 
soar  too  high.  The  real  things  were  fiddle-play 
ing  and  writing  verse,  sometimes  inspired  by 
nature  and  again  by  love  or  death,  and  publish 
ing  it  in  the  county  paper.  Jerry  had  one  con 
solation,  one  delight,  besides  and  above  Mari 
etta.  This  was  the  poetess,  Ruth  Bellair,  and  it 
was  of  her  he  was  thinking  as  he  crossed  the 
field,  this  darkening  twilight,  to  Marietta's 
house.  There  was  a  warm  spring  wind,  and 
frogs  were  peeping.  Jerry  knew,  although  it 
was  too  dark  to  see,  that  down  by  the  brook  the 
procession  of  willows  walked  in  a  mist  of  green. 
It  was  a  broken  sky,  with  here  and  there  a  star 
between  soft  wafts  of  cloud,  and  the  newness 
and  beauty  of  the  time  smote  upon  him  as  he 
hurried  on,  and  made  him  young  again.  He 
walked  faster  than  usual,  a  tall,  lightly  moving 
figure,  his  head  under  his  soft  felt  hat  thrown 
forward  and  his  loose  hair  blown  back  by  the 
swiftness  of  his  going.  Time  seemed  to  have 
fallen  away  from  him  at  the  call  of  some  new 
anticipation.  He  was  not  a  man  nearing  fifty  as 
the  morning's  sun  had  found  him,  but  a  youth 
with  the  mountain-top  splendidly  near  and  the 
rising  sun  to  light  his  steps. 


316          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOES 

Marietta  lived  in  a  little,  low-browed,  gam- 
brel-roofed  house,  with  a  vegetable  garden  in 
the  back,  a  flower  garden  in  front,  and  an  or 
chard  at  the  west  side.  She  had  sold  the  adjoin 
ing  meadows  and  also  the  woodland,  because 
she  said  it  was  better  to  lessen  care  as  you 
grew  older,  and  she  was  a  poor  hand  to  keep  up 
a  farm.  Marietta  was  of  those  who  are  perhaps 
not  calm  by  inheritance,  but  who  have  attained 
serenity  because  life  proves  it  to  be  desirable. 
To-night  she  saw  Jerry  coming  and  met  him  at 
the  door,  a  plump,  fresh-colored  woman  with 
sweet  brows,  thick  white  hair,  and  blue  eyes  full 
of  a  wistful  sympathy.  She  was  younger  than 
he,  yet  her  acquired  calmness  had  given  her  a 
matronly  air  and  made  her  the  one  to  assume 
protection  and  a  gentle  way  of  giving.  As  she 
stood  there  in  the  doorway,  lamp  in  hand,  she 
looked  like  a  benignant  mother  waiting  to  greet 
a  returning  child. 

"  Well,  Marietta,"  said  Jerry. 

He  stopped  a  moment  before  her  on  the  door- 
stone  and  drew  the  quick  breath  of  the  haste  of 
his  coming.  Then  he  took  off  his  hat,  stayed  for 
one  look  at  the  night  behind  him,  and  followed 
her  in.  Marietta  put  the  lamp  on  the  high  man 
tel,  and  moved  his  chair  slightly  nearer  the 
hearth.  There  was  no  fire,  but  the  act  seemed  to 
make  him  more  intimately  welcome.  Then  she 


A  POETESS  IN  SPRING         317 

seated  herself  on  the  sofa  between  the  two  side 
windows  and  folded  her  hands  for  an  evening's 
intercourse.  Jerry  took  out  his  pipe,  held  it  ab 
sently  for  a  moment,  and  laid  it  down  on  the 
table.  Marietta  hardly  liked  that.  He  must  be 
moved  indeed,  she  knew,  if  he  meant  to  forego 
his  evening  smoke.  Jerry  sat  forward  a  little  in 
his  chair  and  let  his  long  hands,  loosely  clasped, 
hang  between  his  knees.  He  gazed  straight  out 
through  the  dark  window  as  if  he  could  see  the 
lovely  night  pulsating  there,  and  his  bright  gray 
eyes  seemed  to  hold  gleams  of  an  extreme  an 
ticipation.  Then  he  remembered  the  world  where 
he  found  himself,  this  clean  exquisite  room  with 
its  homely  furnishings,  where  he  had  become  as 
familiar  as  if  it  were  a  secondary  shell  that  fitted 
him  so  completely  he  hardly  noticed  it,  and 
turned  to  her  with  an  effect  of  winking  his  eyes 
open  after  a  dream. 

"  Marietta,"  said  he,  "  who  do  you  suppose 
has  come  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  in  an  attentive  interest. 

He  kept  his  gaze  on  her  as  if  it  were  all  in 
credible. 

"  Ruth  Bellair,"  he  said  solemnly. 

Now  she  did  start,  and  her  lips  parted  in  the 
surprise  of  it. 

"  Not  here  ?  "  she  insisted.  "  You  don't  mean 
she 's  come  here  ?  " 


318          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No.  She's  at  Poplar  Bridge.  The  paper 
said  so  to-night." 

"What's  she  there  for?" 

"  She 's  come  to  board.  The  paper  said  so. 
6  The  well-known  poetess,  Ruth  Bellair,  has 
arrived  to  spend  the  summer  at  the  commodious 
boarding  establishment  of  L.  H.  Moody.' ': 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  pale  triumph,  and  she 
stared  back  at  him  with  all  the  emotion  he  could 
have  wished. 

"  I  can't  hardly  believe  it,"  she  said  faintly. 

"  That's  it,"  he  nodded  at  her.  "  Nobody  could 
believe  it.  Why,  Marietta,  do  you  suppose 
there  's  been  anight  I've  sat  here  that  I  haven't 
either  read  some  of  her  pieces  to  you,  or  told 
you  something  I  'd  seen  about  her  in  the  pa 
pers  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Marietta,  rather  wearily,  yet  with 
a  careful  interest,  "  you  have  n't  talked  about 
anything  else  scarcely." 

He  was  looking  at  her  out  of  the  same  solemn 
assurance  that  it  had  been  commendable  in  him 
to  preserve  that  romantic  loyalty. 

"  She  begun  to  write  about  the  time  I  did,"  he 
said,  tasting  the  flavor  of  reminiscence.  "  lusedto 
see  her  name  in  the  papers  when  I  never  so  much 
as  thought  I  should  write  a  line  myself.  She 's 
been  a  great  influence  in  my  life,  Marietta." 


A  POETESS  IN  SPRING         319 

"Yes,  course  she  has,"  Marietta  responded, 
rising  to  the  height  of  his  emotion.  "I  guess 
she  's  influenced  a  good  many  folks." 

"  "Well,  I  've  got  my  chance.  She 's  here  within 
ten  miles  of  us,  and  come  what  may,  I  'm  bound 
to  see  her." 

Marietta  started. 

"  See  her  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  How  under  the 
sun  you  going  to  do  that  ?  You  don't  know 
her,  nor  any  of  her  folks.  Seems  if  she  'd  think 
'twas  terrible  queer." 

"  She 's  used  to  it,"  said  Jerry  raptly.  "  She 
must  be.  People  with  gifts  like  that  —  why,  of 
course  folks  go  to  see  'em." 

He  was  removed  and  silent  after  this,  and  had 
scarcely  a  word  for  Marietta's  late-blooming  calla 
that  had  held  her  in  suspense  through  the  winter 
when  she  had  wanted  it,  to  unroll  its  austere 
deliciousness  now  in  the  spring.  She  brought 
him  the  heavy  pot  almost  timidly,  and  Jerry 
put  out  his  hand  and  touched  the  snowy  texture 
of  the  bloom.  But  he  did  it  absently,  and  she 
understood  that  his  mind  was  not  with  her,  and 
that  there  was  little  likelihood  of  his  inditing  a 
set  of  verses  to  the  lily,  as  she  had  hoped.  He 
got  up  and  carried  it  to  the  stand  for  her,  and 
there  he  paused  for  a  moment  beside  it,  com 
ing  awake,  she  thought.  But  after  that  period 
of  musing  he  took  up  his  hat  from  the  little  table 


320          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

between  the  windows  and  stood  there  holding 
it. 

"  Marietta,"  said  he,  with  a  simple  and  moved 
directness,  "  what  if  I  should  carry  her  one  of 
these?" 

"  One  of  my  lilies  ?  " 

"Yes." 

She  brushed  a  bit  of  dust  from  a  smooth  green 
leaf,  and  the  color  rose  to  her  face.  She  seemed 
to  conquer  something. 

"  When  you  going?  "  she  asked,  in  a  subdued 
tone. 

"  I  thought  I  'd  go  to-morrow." 

"  Well,  you  can  have  the  lily,  all  three  of  'em 
if  you  want  —  have  'em  and  welcome." 

He  was  at  the  door  now,  his  hand  on  the  latch. 
Marietta,  watching  him  still  with  that  flush  on 
her  cheeks  and  a  suffused  look  of  the  calm  blue 
eyes,  noted  how  he  stood  gazing  down,  as  if 
already  he  were  planning  his  trip,  and  as  if  the 
anticipation  were  affecting  to  him. 

He  straightened  suddenly  and  met  her  glance. 

"  You  're  real  good,  Marietta,"  he  said  warmly. 
"  I  '11  call  in  the  morning  and  get  'em." 

"  What  time  you  going  ?  " 

"  'Long  about  ten,  I  guess.  Good-night." 

When  she  heard  the  clang  of  the  gate  behind 
him  she  went  slowly  in  and  stood  by  her  lily  for 
a  moment,  looking  down  at  it,  and  not  so  much 


A  POETESS  IN  SPRING         321 

thinking  in  any  definite  channel  as  feeling  the 
queerness  of  things.  Marietta  often  had  long 
ings  which  she  did  not  classify,  for  what  seemed 
such  foolish  matters  that,  unless  she  kept  them 
under  cover,  folks  might  laugh.  The  lily  was 
not  only  a  lily  to  her  :  it  suggested  a  train  of 
bright  imaginings.  It  was  like  snow,  she 
thought,  like  a  pale  lovely  princess,  like  the 
sweet-smelling  field  flower  that  twisted  round 
a  stalk  in  a  beautiful  swirl.  It  seemed  quite  ap 
propriate  to  her  that  Jerry  should  cut  the  flowers 
and  carry  them  to  Ruth  Bellair.  He  would  know, 
and  the  poetess  also,  what  wonderful  thing  to 
say  about  anything  so  lovely,  all  in  measured 
lines  rhyming  to  perfection.  She  sighed  once 
or  twice  when  her  head  was  on  the  pillow.  It 
seemed  amazing  to  her  to  be  gifted  as  Jerry 
and  his  poetess  were,  and  very  stupid  to  be  as 
dull  as  she. 

Jerry,  that  night,  hardly  slept  at  all.  He  sat 
by  his  hearth,  fiddle  in  hand,  sometimes  caress 
ingly  under  his  chin,  sometimes  lying  across 
his  knees;  but  he  was  not  playing.  He  had 
opened  both  windows,  so  that,  although  the 
spring  air  was  cool,  he  could  get  the  feeling  of 
the  night  and  hurry  the  beating  of  his  excited 
heart.  Jerry  was  in  no  habit  of  remembering 
how  old  he  was,  and  to-night  age  seemed  infi 
nitely  removed.  He  was  thinking  of  poetry  and 


322          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

of  Ruth  Bellair.  She  had  always  been  what  he 
called  his  guiding  star.  Once  he  wrote  a  set  of 
verses  by  that  title,  and  put  under  it,  with  a 
hand  trembling  at  its  own  audacity,  "  To  R.  B." 
That  had  never  been  published,  but  he  had  read 
it  to  Marietta,  and  she  had  said  it  was  beautiful. 
Ruth  Bellair  had  always  seemed  very  far  above 
him,  for  although  he  wrote  poetry  the  county 
paper  accepted  in  prodigious  quantities,  she  did 
verse  of  a  sort  that  appeared  in  loftier  journals. 
She  had  written  "  The  Hole  in  the  Baby's  Shoe," 
which  mothers  had  cut  out  and  pinned  on  the 
window  curtain,  and  children  had  spoken  on 
Last  Day,  to  the  accompaniment  of  tears  from 
assembled  parents.  Then  there  was  her  sonnet, 
"  Shall  I  Meet  Thee  There  ?  "  which  Jerry  had 
always  supposed  to  have  been  inspired  by  a 
departed  lover,  and  many,  many  others  that 
touched  the  heart  and  were  easy  to  remember, 
they  ran  so  steadily,  with  such  a  constant  beat. 
Jerry  knew  exactly  how  she  would  look.  She 
would  have  golden  hair  and  blue  eyes,  and 
what  she  had  called  in  one  of  her  poems  the 
"tender  gift  of  tears."  He  had  always,  in  fancy, 
seen  her  dressed  in  blue,  because  that  was  his 
favorite  color,  though  he  reflected  that  he  might 
as  easily  find  her  clad  in  white. 

It  was  only  toward  morning  that  he  slept,  his 
fiddle  on  the  table  now,  but  very  near,  as  if 


A  POETESS  IX  SPRING         323 

they  had  shared  a  solemn  vigil  and  it  still  knew 
how  he  might  feel  in  dreams. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  when  he  stopped  at 
Marietta's  gate  with  the  light  wagon  and  sober 
white  horse  he  had  borrowed  from  Lote  Puring- 
ton,  "  down  the  road."  Marietta  wras  ready  at 
the  door,  a  long  white  box  in  her  hand. 

"  I  been  watching  for  you,"  she  said.  "  I  went 
up  attic,  where  I  could  see  you  turn  the  corner. 
Then  I  snipped  'em  off,  and  here  they  are." 

Jerry  took  the  box  with  a  grave  decorum,  as 
if  it  represented  something  precious  to  him,  and 
disposed  it  in  the  back  of  the  wagon  under  the 
light  robe. 

"I  'm  obliged  to  you,  Marietta,"  he  said. 
"  This  '11  mean  a  good  deal  to  me."  He  stepped 
into  the  wagon  again  and  took  up  the  reins. 
Then  the  calm  and  beneficence  of  the  spring 
day  struck  him  as  it  had  not  before,  in  his  har 
ried  preparations,  and  he  looked  down  at  Mari 
etta.  They  had  always  had  a  good  deal  to  say 
to  each  other  about  the  weather,  and  he  knew 
she  would  understand.  "  It 's  spring,  Marietta," 
he  said,  with  a  simplicity  he  had  never  thought 
it  desirable  to  put  into  his  verse. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  as  quietly,  yet  with  a 
thrill  in  her  voice.  "  I  don't  hardly  think  I  ever 
saw  a  prettier  day." 

There  was  such  a  mist  of  green  that  the  earth 


324          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

seemed  to  be  breathing  it  out  in  swirls  and  bil 
lows.  It  was  impossible  to  say  whether  there 
were  more  riot  and  surge  in  the  budding  ground, 
or  in  the  heavens,  where  clouds  flew  swiftly. 
The  birds  were  singing,  all  kinds  together,  in  a 
tumultuous  harmony.  Jerry  felt  light-headed 
with  the  wonder  of  it;  but  Marietta  had  an  ache 
at  her  heart,  she  did  not  know  why,  though  she 
was  used  to  that  kind  of  thing  when  the  outside 
world  struck  her  as  being  full  of  tremulous  ap 
peals  without  any  answers. 

Though  Jerry  had  the  reins  in  his  hands,  he 
did  not  go.  Instead,  he  continued  looking  at  her 
standing  there  in  her  freshness  of  good  health 
and  the  candor  of  her  gaze  that  seemed  to  him, 
next  to  his  mother's  face,  the  kindest  thing  he 
had  ever  known.  The  blue  of  her  eyes  and  the 
blue  of  her  dress  matched  each  other  in  a  lovely 
way.  He  felt  that  he  had  something  to  say  to 
her,  but  he  could  not  remember  what  it  was. 
Suddenly  a  robin  on  the  fence  burst  into  adjur 
ations  of  a  robust  sort,  and  Marietta,  without 
meaning  to,  spoke.  She  had  always  said  since 
her  childhood  that  a  robin  bewitched  her  —  he 
was  so  happy  and  so  pert. 

"Jerry,"  said  she,  "what  if  I  should  get  my 
hat  and  ride  with  you  as  far  as  Ferny  Woods  ?  " 

"  So  do,"  said  Jerry,  with  a  perfect  cordiality. 
"So  do." 


A  POETESS  IN  SPRING         325 

"  It 's  a  pretty  day,"  Marietta  asserted  again ; 
but  he  cut  her  short,  advising  her  to  get  ready, 
and  she  ran  in,  a  flush  on  her  cheeks  and  light 
ness  in  her  step.  When  she  came  out  she  had 
made  no  conventional  preparations  for  a  drive. 
She  had  only  pinned  on  her  broad  black  hat  and 
taken  off  her  apron.  She  carried  a  little  oblong 
basket  with  a  cover,  and  this  she  set  carefully 
in  the  back  of  the  wagon,  with  the  lilies.  Jerry 
alighted  gallantly  to  help  her  in,  and  when  he 
had  started  up  the  horse  it  was  Marietta  who 
began  speaking.  Usually  she  was  rather  silent, 
following  Jerry's  lead,  but  to-day  the  warmth 
and  beauty  and  song  had  liberated  something  in 
her  spirit,  and  she  had  to  talk  back  to  the  talk 
ing  earth. 

"  You  know  Ferny  "Woods  are  much  as  a  mile 
this  side  of  the  Moodys',"  she  was  saying.  "  You 
can  just  leave  me  there,  and  then  you  can  go 
along  and  make  your  call." 

"  It  seems  pretty  mean  not  to  take  you  with 
me,"  Jerry  offered  haltingly.  Yet  he  knew,  as 
she  did,  that  he  had  no  desire  to  take  her.  This 
was  his  own  sacred  pilgrimage. 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  go  for  anything,"  she  an 
swered  eagerly.  "  You  Ve  looked  forward  to  it  so 
long — well,  not  exactly  that,  for  you  did  n't  know 
she  was  coming.  But  it  means  a  good  deal  to  you. 
And  I  don't  care  a  mite.  I  truly  don't,  not  a  mite." 


326          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

Jerry  flicked  at  the  horse's  ears  and  spoke  out 
of  his  maze  of  dreamy  anticipation. 

"  Seems  if  I  should  know  her  the  minute  I  put 
eyes  on  her." 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  will,"  she  encouraged  him. 
"  Maybe  she 's  the  only  boarder  they  Ve  got,  so 
far."' 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  mean  that.  Seems  if  I  knew 
exactly  how  she  ought  to  look." 

"  How  d'  you  think,  Jerry  ? "  she  inquired 
confidentially,  as  if  his  fancies  were  valuable  and 
delightful  to  her.  That  was  the  tone  she  always 
had  for  him.  Jerry  would  have  said,  if  he  had 
needed  to  think  anything  about  it,  that  Marietta 
was  the  easiest  person  to  talk  to  in  the  whole 
world.  But  he  never  did  think  about  it.  She 
was  a  part  of  his  interchange  with  life,  as  real 
and  as  inevitable  as  his  own  hungers  and  satis 
factions. 

"Well,"  he  said,  while  the  horse  slackened 
into  a  walk,  with  the  grade  of  Blossom  Hill,  "  I 
guess  she 's  light-complexioned.  Don't  you  ?  " 

"  Maybe,"  nodded  Marietta  kindly.  "  You 
can't  tell." 

"  I  guess  she  don't  weigh  very  heavy,"  said 
Jerry,  in  a  shamefaced  bluntness,  as  if  he 
wronged  the  absent  goddess  through  such  crud 
ities.  "  You  can't  seem  to  see  anybody  that 's 
had  the  thoughts  she  has  and  the  way  she 's  got 


A  POETESS  IN  SPRING         327 

of  putting  'em  —  you  can't  see  'em  very  big- 
framed  or  heavy,  can  you  ?  I  can't,  anyways." 

"  No,"  said  Marietta,  looking  down  at  her  own 
plump  hands  folded  on  her  knee  —  "  no,  I  don't 
know 's  you  can.  Only  see,  Jerry !  I  always 
thought  this  little  rise  was  about  the  prettiest 
view  there  is  betwixt  us  and  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains." 

They  were  on  the  top  of  Blossom  Hill  again, 
and  Jerry  drew  the  horse  to  a  halt  before  wind 
ing  down.  All  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  seemed, 
in  Marietta's  eyes,  to  be  spread  out  before  them. 
There  was  the  rolling  land  of  farms  and  villages, 
and  beyond  it  the  line  of  haze  that  meant,  they 
knew,  the  sea.  Tears  filled  her  eyes.  Then  her 
gaze  came  home  to  an  apple-tree  by  the  side  of 
the  road. 

"You  see  that  tree,  Jerry?"  she  asked. 
"  Well,  I  've  always  called  that  Mother's  Tree. 
Once,  the  last  o'  May,  we  borrowed  Lote's  team 
and  climbed  up  here,  and  here  was  that  tree  in 
full  bloom.  Mother  had  a  kind  of  a  pretty  way 
of  putting  things,  and  she  said  't  was  like  a  bride. 
'  Some  trees  are  all  over  pink,'  she  says,  '  but 
this  is  white  as  the  drifted  snow.'  And  the 
winter  mother  died,  I  rode  up  over  this  hill 
again,  to  get  her  some  things  to  be  buried  in, 
and  I  stopped  and  looked  at  that  tree.  It  snowed 
the  night  before,  and  'twas  all  over  white,  and 


328          COUNTEY  KEIGHBOKS 

sparkling  in  the  sun.  I  spoke  right  out  loud. 
'  Mother's  Tree,'  I  says." 

"  Sho !  "  said  Jerry.  "  You  never  mentioned 
that  before.  Anybody  could  almost  write  some 
thing  out  o'  that." 

"  Could  you  ?  "  asked  Marietta,  brightening, 
"  I  wish  you  would.  I  should  admire  to  have 
you." 

Jerry's  excitement  of  the  night  before  had 
waned  a  little.  Suddenly  he  felt  tired  and  chill, 
and,  although  the  purpose  of  his  journey  had 
not  been  accomplished,  as  if  the  zest  of  things 
had  gone. 

"Marietta,"  said  he,  starting  on  the  horse, 
"  do  you  think  much  about  growing  old  ?  " 

"I  guess  I  don't,"  said  Marietta  brightly, 
and  at  once.  "  That 's  a  terrible  foolish  thing  to 
do.  Least,  so  it  seems  to  me." 

"  But  you  don't  feel  as  you  did  fifteen  years 
ago,  do  you,  Marietta  ? "  He  asked  it  wist- 
fully. 

She  was  ready  with  her  prompt  assurance. 

"  I  don't  know 's  I  do.  Don't  seem  as  if 
'twould  be  natural  if  I  did.  Take  a  tree,  take 
that  apple-tree  back  there — I  don't  know's  you 
could  say  it  had  the  same  feelings  it  did  when 
it  sprouted  up  out  o'  the  seeds.  We  're  in  a 
kind  of  a  procession,  seems  if,  marching  along 
towards — well,  I  don't  know  what  all.  But 


A  POETESS  IN  SPRING         329 

wherever  we  're  going,  it 's  all  right,  I  say.  It 's 
all  right." 

They  were  silent  then  for  a  time,  each  scan 
ning  the  roadsides  and  the  vista  before  them 
framed  in  drooping  branches  and  enriched  by 
springing  sward. 

"  You  seem  to  have  a  good  deal  of  faith, 
Marietta,"  said  he  suddenly.  "But  you  ain't 
much  of  a  hand  to  talk  about  it." 

"  Course  I  got  faith,"  she  answered.  "  It  ain't 
any  use  for  anybody  to  tell  me  there  ain't  a 
good  time  coming.  I  don't  have  to  conjure  up 
some  kind  of  a  hope.  I  know." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  asked  Jerry. 

She  gave  a  sudden  irrepressible  laugh. 

"I  guess  it's  because  the  sky  is  so  pretty," 
she  said.  "  Maybe  the  robins  have  got  something 
to  do  with  it.  Days  like  this  I  feel  as  if  I  was 
right  inside  the  pearly  gates.  I  truly  do." 

They  were  entering  the  shade  of  evergreens 
that  bordered  the  ravine  road,  where  there  were 
striated  cliffs,  and  little  runnels  came  trickling 
down  to  join  the  stream  below. 

"I  guess  there  ain't  a  spot  round  here  that 
means  more  to  folks  in  our  neighborhood  than 
this,"  said  Marietta.  "Remember  the  time  some 
body  wanted  to  name  it '  Picnic  Road  '  ?  There 
were  seventeen  picnics  that  summer,  if  I  recol 
lect,  all  in  our  set." 


330          COUTSTTKY  NEIGHBORS 

"  Yes,"  said  Jerry.  He  remembered  his  poem 
about  the  "  awesome  amphitheatre  nature 
wrought,"  and  wondered  if  Marietta  also  re 
called  it  and  would  quote  some  of  it.  But  she 
only  said:  — 

"  That  kind  of  a  round  where  we  used  to  eat 
our  suppers  is  about  the  prettiest  spot  I  ever 
see.  That 's  where  I  'm  going  to  set  up  my  tent 
whilst  you're  making  your  call.  When  you 
come  back  you  can  poke  right  on  in  there  and 
'coot,'  and  I'll  answer." 

Jerry's  mercurial  spirits  were  mounting  now. 
The  past  few  minutes  had  given  him  two  beau 
tiful  subjects  for  poetry.  He  could  make  some 
four-lined  verses,  he  thought,  about  the  tree 
that  was  a  bride  in  spring  and  the  next  winter 
robed  for  burial.  He  could  hear  the  cadence  of 
them  now,  beating  through  his  head  in  premoni 
tory  measures.  Then  there  was  the  other  fancy 
that  life  was  a  procession  to  an  unknown  goal. 
Jerry  had  read  very  little,  except  in  the  works 
of  Ruth  Bellair  and  her  compeers,  and  the  im 
aginings  he  wrought  in  had  a  way  of  seeming 
new  and  strange.  The  talk  went  on,  drifting 
back  irresistibly  by  the  familiar  way  they  were 
taking  to  the  spring  of  their  OWTL  lives,  not,  it 
seemed,  in  search  of  a  lost  youth,  but  as  if  they 
had  it  with  them,  an  invisible  third,  in  all  their 
memories. 


A  POETESS  IN  SPRING         331 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  Jerry.  He  drew  up  at 
the  bars  that  led  into  old  BlaisdelPs  sugar-camp, 
and  Marietta,  not  waiting  for  him,  sprang  out 
over  the  wheel.  "  You're  as  light  as  a  feather," 
said  he  admiringly,  but  with  no  sense  of  won 
der.  They  were  still  in  that  childhood  land 
where  everybody  is  agile  for  one  long,  bright 
day. 

"Light  as  a  bun,"  returned  Marietta  flip 
pantly.  "  Here,  you  wait  a  minute  till  I  get  me 
out  my  basket.  When  you  come  back  you  be 
sure  to  coot." 

Jerry  drove  on  a  step  or  two,  and  then  drew 
in  the  horse.  Just  as  she  had  set  her  basket 
over  the  bars  and  was  prepared  to  follow,  he 
called  to  her:  — 

"  Marietta,  I  believe  I  '11  leave  the  team." 

Marietta  understood.  She  came  back  readily. 

"  Well,"  she  said, "  I  think  'twould  look  better, 
myself." 

"  I  can  hitch  to  the  bars,  same  as  we  used  to," 
Jerry  continued.  "  Remember  how  Underbill's 
old  Buckskin  used  to  crib  the  fence  ?  Here 's 
the  very  piece  of  zinc  Blaisdell  nailed  on  that 
summer  we  wer.e  here  so  much." 

He  had  turned  and  driven  back,  and  while 
he  tied  the  horse,  Marietta  took  out  the  box  of 
lilies. 

"  I  guess  you  better  hold  these  loose  in  your 


332          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

hand,"   she   said   tentatively.     "  Seems   to   me 
't  would  look  more  appropriate." 

Jerry  nodded.  They  both  had  a  vision  of  the 
poet  going  on  foot  to  the  lady  of  his  dreams, 
his  lilies  in  his  hand.  Marietta  lifted  the  cover 
of  the  box  and  unrolled  them  deftly.  She  looked 
about  her  for  an  instant,  and  then,  finding  feas 
ible  standing-ground,  went  to  one  of  the  run 
nels  dripping  down  the  cliff  and  paused  there, 
holding  the  lily  stems  in  the  cool  laving  of  the 
fall.  Jerry,  the  horse  tied,  stood  watching  her 
and  waiting.  The  bright  blue  of  her  dress  shone 
softly  against  the  wet  brown  and  black  of  the 
cliff  wall,  and  the  pink  of  her  cheeks  glowed 
above  it  like  a  rosy  light.  Marietta  had  thought 
her  dress  far  too  gay  when  she  bought  it,  but 
the  dusk  of  the  ravine  road  had  toned  it  down 
to  a  tint  the  picture  needed  for  full  harmony. 
Jerry,  though  the  familiar  spot  and  her  presence 
in  it  soothed  and  pleased  him,  was  running  ahead 
with  his  eager  mind  to  the  farm  where  Ruth 
Bellair  stood  waiting  at  the  gate.  Of  course  she 
was  not  really  waiting  for  him,  because  she  did 
not  know  he  was  coming,  nor  even  that  he  lived 
at  all.  When  he  had  mailed  her  the  package  of 
autumn  leaves  Marietta  had  pressed,  he  had  not 
sent  his  name  with  them.  Yet  it  seemed  to  him 
appropriate  that  she  should  be  standing,  a  girlish 
figure,  by  the  Moodys'  gate,  to  let  him  in.  After 


A  POETESS  EST  SPRING         333 

that  they  would  walk  up  the  path  together,  she 
carrying  the  lilies;  and  perhaps  in  the  orchard, 
where  the  trees  were  in  bloom,  they  would  pace 
back  and  forth  together  and  talk  and  talk.  Jerry 
knew  it  was  too  early  for  apple-trees  to  be 
blossoming,  even  in  this  weather,  but  the  or 
chard  where  Ruth  Bellair  walked  would  be  white 
and  pink.  So  he  took  his  lilies  in  his  hand  and 
strode  away,  and  Marietta  watched  him.  At  the 
turn  of  the  road  he  stopped  and  waved  his 
hand  to  her. 

"  Good-by  !  "  called  Marietta.  "  Good  luck ! 
Good-by ! "  Then  a  little  sob  choked  her,  and 
she  stamped  her  foot.  "  What  a  fool ! "  said 
Marietta,  addressing  herself,  and  she  walked  to 
the  bars  with  great  determination,  let  down  one, 
"  scooched  "  to  go  through,  and,  picking  up  her 
basket,  went  on  to  the  amphitheatre.  Jerry  need 
not  have  wondered  whether  she  remembered 
his  ornate  poem.  She  did,  every  word  of  it,  and 
as  she  walked  she  said  it  to  herself  in  a  mur 
muring  tone.  When  she  was  within  the  beloved 
inclosure  she  paused  a  moment  before  setting 
down  her  basket,  and  looked  about  her.  The 
place  was  not  so  grand  as  her  childish  eyes  had 
found  it,  only  a  great  semicircle  of  ground  brown 
with  pine  needles  and  surrounded  by  ancient 
trees;  but  it  was  beautiful  enough.  Strangely, 
she  had  not  visited  it  for  years.  Her  own  mates 


334          COUNTEY  ]S^IGHBORS 

no  longer  came,  because  they  were  doing  quiet 
things  at  home,  farming  and  household  tasks, 
and  Marietta  would  have  had  no  mind,  if  she 
had  been  invited,  to  make  one  of  a  serious  mid 
dle-aged  rout  taking  its  annual  pleasure  with  a 
difference. 

"I'd  rather  by  half  be  alone,"  she  said  aloud, 
as  she  looked  about  her,  "  or  maybe  with  one 
other  that  feels  as  I  do." 

Then  she  put  down  her  basket  and  went,  by 
a  path  she  knew,  to  the  spring  cleaned  of  fallen 
leaves  by  the  first  picnickers  of  every  season. 
There  it  was,  the  little  kind  pool  with  its  bottom 
of  sand  and  its  fringing  grasses,  the  cress  she 
had  planted  once  with  her  own  hands  and  now 
beginning  to  show  brightly  green.  Marietta 
knelt  and  drank  from  her  hollowed  palm.  The 
cup  was  in  the  basket.  When  Jerry  came  back 
he  should  have  it  to  slake  his  thirst ;  and  pre 
sently  she  returned  to  the  amphitheatre  and  lay 
down  on  the  pine-needles,  to  look  up  through 
the  boughs  at  glints  of  sky,  and  think  and  think. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  thought,  after  all.  It  followed 
no  road,  but  stayed  an  instant  on  a  pine  bough, 
as  a  bird  alights  and  then  flies  out  through  the 
upper  branches  to  the  sky  itself. 

Marietta  could  not  help  feeling  happy,  in  a 
still,  unreasoning  way.  She  had  not  had  an  easy 
youth.  It  had  been  full  of  poverty  and  fears, 


A  POETESS  IN  SPRING         335 

and  her  later  life  had  been  lived  on  one  monot 
onous  level  of  satisfying  her  own  bare  wants  and 
finding  nothing  left  for  luxury.  But  something, 
some  singing  inner  voice,  was  always,  in  these 
later  days,  bidding  her  take  hope.  She  was  not 
expectant  of  definite  delights;  she  only  cher 
ished  an  irresponsible  certainty.  When  the  door 
opened  to  let  in  spring,  it  seemed  to  show  her 
heaven  also,  and  she  gave  herself  up  to  the 
gladness  of  it.  If  Marietta  had  been  able  to 
scrutinize  her  inner  being,  she  would  probably 
have  owned  that  she  found  Jerry  Freelands'  in 
fluence  upon  her  a  great  and  guiding  one.  It 
was,  she  knew,  a  precious  privilege  to  know  a 
poet,  and  to  see  the  natural  and  spiritual  worlds 
through  his  discerning  eyes.  It  would  have 
seemed  to  her  wonderful  to  be  a  poet  herself. 
Ruth  Bellair,  waiting  in  unconscious  sovereignty 
for  Jerry  to  seek  her  out  and  lay  lilies  at  her 
feet,  was,  she  knew,  the  happiest  woman  in  the 
spring  world.  Yet  the  soft  air  moved  the  pines 
to  wavelike  murmurings,  and  Marietta  too  was 
happy. 

It  was  nearly  three  o'clock  when  Jerry  came 
back,  and  before  that  Marietta  had  roused  her 
self  to  open  her  basket  and  spread  a  napkin  on 
the  big  flat  stone  that  made  the  picnic-table. 
She  had  laid  a  pile  of  fine  white  bread  and  but 
ter  on  the  cloth,  a  paper  twist  of  pickles,  because 


336          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

picnickers,  according  to  tradition,  are  the  better 
for  consuming  pickles,  and  some  of  her  own 
superior  sugar  gingerbread.  The  cup  was  there 
waiting  for  Jerry  to  take  it  to  the  spring.  Then 
she  listened  for  him.  He  did  not  give  the  ex 
pected  coot,  but  came  through  the  forest  glade 
silently  and  with  a  halting  step.  When  Marietta 
saw  him  her  heart  ran  forward,  before  her  feet. 
Jerry  looked  an  older  man;  his  years  were  so 
apparent  to  her  that  it  seemed  for  a  foolish  in 
stant  as  if  his  father  were  advancing  toward  her 
out  of  the  past  where  she  and  Jerry  had  been 
young  together.  She  hurried  forward. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  besought.  "  What 's  hap 
pened  ?  " 

His  dull  eyes  turned  upon  her  absently.  He 
took  off  his  hat  and  dropped  it  at  his  feet. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  nothing 's  happened  that  I 
know  of." 

The  part  of  prudence  was  to  halt,  but  anxiety 
hurried  her  on  as  if  it  might  have  been  to  the 
rescue  of  a  child  in  pain. 

"  Didn't  you  see  her  ?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"  Yes,  I  saw  her." 

He  passed  a  hand  over  his  forehead  and 
smoothed  his  hair  in  a  way  he  had,  ending  the 
gesture  at  the  back  of  his  neck. 

"  How  ?d  she  look,  Jerry  ?  What  was  she  do 
ing?" 


A  POETESS  IN  SPKING         337 

"Why,"  said  Jerry,  narrowing  his  eyes,  as  if 
he  recalled  a  picture  he  had  found  incredible, 
"she  was  playing  croquet  out  in  the  front 
yard." 

"But  how 'd  she  look?" 

"  Why,  she  's  a  kind  of  a  dark-complexioned 
woman.  She  wears  spe'tacles.  She's"  —  he 
paused  there  an  instant  and  caught  his  breath 
—  "  she 's  pretty  fleshy." 

"  Was  she  nice  to  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  was  nice.  She  meant  to  be  real  nice 
and  kind.  She  made  me"  —  a  spasm  twitched 
his  face,  and  he  concluded — "  she  made  me  play 
croquet." 

They  stood  there  in  the  wood  loneliness,  dap 
ples  of  sunlight  flickering  on  them  through  the 
leaves.  Marietta  felt  a  strange  wave  of  some 
thing  rushing  over  her.  It  might  have  been 
mirth,  or  indignation  that  somebody  had  de 
stroyed  her  old  friend's  paradise;  but  it  threat 
ened  to  sweep  her  from  her  basis  of  control. 

"  You  sit  down,  Jerry,"  she  said  soberly.  "  I  'm 
going  to  the  spring  to  get  you  a  cup  of  water, 
and  then  we  '11  have  our  luncheon." 

When  she  returned,  bearing  the  full  cup  deli 
cately,  he  lay  like  a  disconsolate  boy,  face  down 
upon  the  ground;  so  she  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  said,  hi  a  tone  of  the  brisk  house 
wife  :  — 


338          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOKS 

"  Luncheon  's  ready." 

Then  Jerry  sat  up,  and  ate  when  she  put  food 
into  his  hand  and  drank  from  the  cup  she  gave 
him.  Marietta  ate  only  a  crumb  here  and  there 
from  her  one  bit  of  bread,  for,  seeing  how  hun 
gry  he  was,  she  suspected  that,  in  his  poet's 
rapture,  he  had  had  no  breakfast.  She  tried  to 
rouse  him  to  the  things  he  loved. 

"  Only  look  through  there,"  she  said,  pointing 
to  a  vista  where  a  group  of  birches  were  shim 
mering  in  green.  "  I  don't  know 's  I  ever  see  a 
fountain  such  as  they  tell  about,  but  this  time 
in  the  year,  before  the  leaves  have  fairly  come, 
seems  if  the  green  was  like  a  fountain  springing 
up  and  never  falling  back.  Maybe,  though,  it 's 
the  word  I  like,  the  sound  of  it.  I  don't  know." 

Jerry  turned  his  eyes  on  her  in  a  quick,  keen 
glance. 

"  Marietta,"  he  said,  "  you  have  real  pretty 
thoughts." 

"  Do  I  ?  "  asked  Marietta,  laughing,  without 
consciousness.  She  was  only  glad  to  have  be 
guiled  him  from  the  trouble  of  his  mind.  "  Well, 
if  I  do,  I  guess  you  put  'em  into  my  head  in 
the  first  place."  The  feast  was  over,  and  she 
folded  the  napkin  and  swept  away  the  crumbs. 
"  Want  some  more  water  ?  "  she  asked,  pausing 
as  she  repacked  the  basket. 

Jerry  shook  his  head. 


A  POETESS  IN  SPKING         339 

"  Marietta,"  said  he,  "  seems  if  it  wa'n't  a  day 
since  you  and  I  used  to  be  here  picnicking." 

She  laughed  again  whimsically. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "when  I  travel  back  over 
the  seams  I  've  sewed,  looks  like  a  good  long 
day.  I  guess  there's  miles  enough  of  'em  to 
stretch  from  here  to  State  o'  Maine." 

Jerry  seemed  to  be  speaking  from  a  dream. 

"  And  the  others  have  married  and  got  chil 
dren  growing  up,"  he  mused.  "  Seems  if  we  'd 
missed  the  best  of  it." 

They  had  risen  and  stood  facing  each  other, 
Marietta  with  the  basket  in  her  hand.  Jerry 
took  it  gently  from  her  and  set  it  on  the  ground. 

"Marietta,"  he  said,  "I  guess  I'm  kind  of 
waked  up." 

Her  face  quivered.  He  thought  he  had  never 
seen  her  look  exactly  that  way  before. 

"  I  'd  work  terrible  hard,"  said  he.  "  I  guess 
I  could  make  you  have  an  easier  time." 

Then  his  appealing  eyes  met  hers,  and  Mari 
etta,  because  she  had  no  wish  to  deny  him 
anything,  gave  him  her  hands,  and  they  kissed 
soberly. 

When  they  walked  back  to  the  road,  Jerry 
drew  her  aside  to  the  birches  on  the  sunny 
knoll. 

"You  mustn't  lay  it  up  against  me,"  he  said 
brokenly. 


340          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"Lay  what  up?" 

Her  lips  were  full  and  lovely,  and  her  eyes 
shone  with  the  one  look  of  happiness. 

"  It 's  spring  with  these."  He  pointed  to  the 
birches.  "  It  ain't  with  us." 

"  I  don't  know."  Marietta  laughed  willfully. 
"  Ain't  you  ever  seen  an  apple-tree  blooming 
in  the  fall?  or  a  late  rose?  Well,  I  have.  So, 
there ! " 

To  Jerry,  looking  at  her,  she  seemed  like  a 
beautiful  stranger,  met  in  the  way,  and  he  kissed 
her  again. 

When  they  were  driving  home  in  their  sober 
intimacy  that  had  yet  an  undercurrent  of  that 
rushing  river  of  life,  Marietta  turned  suddenly 
to  him. 

"  Jerry,"  she  said,  "  when  you  played  croquet, 
who  beat  ?  " 

His  eyes,  meeting  hers,  took  the  merry  chal 
lenge  of  them  and  answered  it.  They  both  began 
to  laugh,  ecstatically,  like  children. 

"  She  did,"  said  he. 


THE  MASTER  MINDS  OF 
HISTORY 

"  WHAT  's  that  dry-goods  case  in  the  front  en 
try  ?  "  asked  Elihu  Meade. 

He  had  sunk  into  his  particular  chair  by  the 
kitchen  stove,  and  was  drawing  off  his  boots 
with  the  luxurious  slowness  of  one  whose  day's 
work  is  done  and  who  may  sit  by  expectant 
while  fragrant  warm  delights  are  simmering  for 
supper.  His  wife,  Amarita  by  name,  stood  at 
the  stove,  piloting  apple  turnovers  in  a  pool  of 
fat.  At  a  first  glance  she  and  her  husband 
seemed  an  ill-matched  pair,  he  with  a  thin  face 
and  precise  patch  of  whisker  at  the  ear,  a  notice 
able  and  general  meagreness  of  build,  and  she 
dark  and  small,  with  a  face  flashing  vivid  intel 
ligence.  Elihu's  mother  —  a  large,  loosely  made, 
blond  old  lady  —  sat  by  the  window,  out  of 
range  of  the  lamplight  even,  knitting  by  feeling, 
and  doubling  her  pleasures  through  keeping  her 
glance  out  of  the  window,  where  a  new  moon 
hung. 

While  she  felt  the  warmth  of  indoor  comfort 
wafting  about  her,  Amarita  cast  up  a  hesitating 
yet  altogether  happy  look  at  her  husband.  She 


342          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

knew  from  old  habit  that  she  must  choose  her 
time  of  approach,  but  the  warmth  and  the  pleni 
tude  of  supper  and  her  own  inner  enchantment 
with  what  she  had  to  tell  convinced  her  against 
reason  that  the  time  was  now. 

"  Why,"  she  began,  "  you  see  'twas  this  way." 

Mrs.  Meade  the  elder,  known  as  "  old  Mis' 
Meade,"  gave  a  majestic  clearing  of  her  throat. 
She  brought  her  gaze  indoors  and  bent  a  frown 
ing  glance  on  the  two  at  the  stove.  A  shade  of 
vexation  passed  over  her  face,  grotesquely  elon 
gating  the  downward-dropping  lines. 

"  Rita,"  she  called,  in  what  seemed  warning, 
"  you  come  here  a  minute.  Ain't  I  dropped  a 
stitch?" 

Rita  responded  at  once,  bending  over  the 
stocking  ostentatiously  displayed. 

"  You  let  me  take  it  to  the  light,"  she  began ; 
but  old  Mis'  Meade  laid  thumb  and  finger  on 
her  apron,  and  having  caught  her  daughter-in- 
law's  eye,  made  mysterious  grimaces  at  her. 
Amarita,  the  knitting  in  her  hand,  stared  frankly 
back,  and  the  old  lady,  forced  to  be  explicit, 
bade  her  in  a  mumbling  tone :  — 

"Wait  till  he  's  through  his  supper.  It 's  no 
time  now.  There!  " she  continued,  with  a  calcu 
lated  clearness,  "you  give  it  back.  I  guess  I 
didn't  drop  it,  after  all.  Your  fat's  burnin'. 
Ketch  it  off,  Elihu,  won't  ye  ?  " 


MASTER  MINDS  OF  HISTORY    343 

The  imperiled  fat  made  a  diversion,  and  then 
supper  was  on  the  table,  and  old  Mis'  Meade 
moved  away  from  the  window  and  brought  her 
great  bulk  over  to  partake  of  turnovers.  There 
was  a  long  silence  while  tea  was  passed  and  the 
turnovers  were  pronounced  upon  by  the  acqui 
sition  that  is  more  eloquent  than  words.  But 
after  Elihu  had  finished  his  fifth  and  last,  he 
pushed  his  cup  away  with  solemn  satisfaction 
and  asked  his  wife  across  the  table :  — 

"  What 's  that  packin'-case  out  in  the  front 
entry?" 

Old  Mis'  Meade  gave  a  smothered  ejaculation 
of  discouragement,  but  Amarita  looked  up  with 
the  brightest  eyes. 

She  was  having  a  moment  of  perfect  domestic 
peace,  when  all  she  did  seemed  to  bear  fruitage 
in  the  satisfaction  of  hunger  and  kindred  needs, 
and  it  innocently  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  com 
pensating  pleasure  was  about  to  come.  She 
gazed  straight  at  her  husband,  her  eyes  darken 
ing  with  the  pleasure  in  them. 

"Why,"  said  she,  "that's  the  'Master  Minds 
of  History.'" 

Elihu  bent  a  frowning  brow  upon  her. 

"The  'Master  Minds  of  History,'"  she  re 
peated.  "The  agent  was  here  this  afternoon — " 

"  You  don't  think  the  mice  '11  git  at  them  pies 
up  in  the  blue  chist,  do  ye?"  inquired  old  Mis' 


344          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOKS 

Meade,  fatuous  in  a  desperate  seeking  to  direct 
the  talk. 

Amarita  gave  her  a  passing  glance  of  wonder. 

"Why,  no,"  she  said.  "  They  couldn't  get  in 
to  save  their  little  souls.  You  see  "  —  she  turned 
again  to  Elihu  — "  the  agent  was  here  this 
afternoon  —  " 

Old  Mis'  Meade  almost  groaned,  and  went 
away  to  her  bedroom,  as  if  she  could  not  endure 
the  hearing  of  the  coming  contest  or  to  see  the 
slain. 

"  What  agent  ?  "  asked  Elihu. 

He  had  gone  back  to  his  seat  by  the  fire,  and 
Amarita,  answering,  stood  with  her  hand  upon 
the  devastated  table. 

"  Why,  the  book  agent.  He  come  in  a  buggy, 
and  he  had  this  set  with  him." 

"  Set  o' what?" 

"  Why,  set  o'  books.  He 's  takin'  orders  for  'em, 
and  this  was  a  set  he  brought  along  under  the 
seat,  thinkin'  somebody,  the  minister  or  some 
body  that  knew  what 's  what,  would  buy  it  right 
out.  There's  twelve  volumes,  and  they're  a 
dollar  and  eighty-seven  a  volume,  and  there  's 
illustrations,  and  it 's  all  printed  in  the  clearest 
type." 

She  paused,  flushed  and  expectant,  and  Elihu 
stared  at  her. 

"  A  dollar  and  eighty-seven  cents ! "  he  re- 


MASTER  MINDS  OF  HISTORY    345 

peated.  "  You  ain't  gone  and  put  your  name 
down  for  twelve  books,  a  dollar  and  eighty- 
seven  cents  apiece  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Amarita.  "  Course  I  ain't. 
I  did  n't  have  the  money,  and  so  I  told  him.  I 
would,  in  a  minute,  if  I  'd  had  it." 

"  Well,  what 's  the  packin'-case  here  for  ?  " 
inquired  Elihu  slowly,  while  his  mind  labored. 

"  Why,  he  was  possessed  to  leave  it.  '  You 
took  over  the  volumes,'  he  says,  '  and  read  'em 
all  you  want  to,  and  if  you  don't  feel  to  subscribe 
then,  it  sha'n't  cost  you  a  cent.'  And  he 's  comin' 
along  here  pretty  soon,  and  he 's  goin'  to  call, 
and  if  we  don't  conclude  to  keep  'em,  he  '11  take 
'em  right  back." 

"  My  king !  "  said  Elihu.  He  looked  at  her  in 
complete  discouragement,  and  Amarita  returned 
his  gaze  with  one  bespeaking  a  conviction  of 
her  own  innocence.  "  Don't  ye  know  no  better  'n 
that  ?  Take  'em  away !  All  the  takin'  away  he  '11 
do  '11  be  in  a  hog's  eye.  He  '11  say  you  bought 
'em,  and  ain't  paid  for  'em,  and  'long  about 
the  first  o'  the  month  he  '11  send  in  a  bill  for 
twelve  books  at  a  dollar  and  eighty-seven  cents 
apiece." 

Amarita  made  a  picture  of  childlike  misery. 
Her  eyes  had  the  piteous  look  of  coming  tears, 
and  she  swallowed  once  or  twice  before  speech 
was  possible. 


346         COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

"O  Elihu,"  she  breathed,  "you  don't  really 
s'pose  that,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Course  he  will,"  said  Elihu.  "  That 's  the 
way  they  do  —  come  drivin'  along  a  time  o'  day 
when  there 's  no  menfolks  to  home,  and  take  in 
the  womenfolks.  They  know  women  ain't  got 
no  business  trainin'.  How  do  they  know  it?  Be 
cause  they  've  tried  it  over  V  over,  and  every 
time  they  've  come  out  ahead," 

The  tears  were  dropping  now,  and  Amarita 
walked  hastily  away  to  conceal  them,  and  got 
down  her  dish-pan,  although  the  table  was  not 
yet  cleared.  By  the  time  she  had  turned  from 
the  sink  again,  a  shadow  of  her  hopefulness  came 
wanly  back. 

"  I  don't  believe  he 's  that  kind  of  a  fellow," 
she  faltered.  "  He  talked  real  fair.  I  thought  I 
should  admire  to  look  'em  over.  I  thought  maybe 
we  could  read  some  out  loud  in  the  evenin', 
while  your  mother  knit." 

"'Talk  fair!'  Course  he  talked  fair,"  said 
Elihu.  "  That 's  a  part  on 't.  I  '11  bet  a  dollar  if 
you 's  in  a  court  o'  law  you  could  n't  remember 
what  he  said." 

"  I  could  the  sense  of  it." 

"  That 's  it !  Why,  don't  ye  know,  when  any 
thing  's  business,  it 's  got  to  be  jest  so  and  no 
other  way  ?  'T  ain't  surprisin'  you  should  n't. 
"Womenfolks  ain't  called  on  to  do  brain  work, 


MASTER  MINDS  OF  HISTORY    347 

any  to  speak  of  —  well,  keep  school  they  may, 
and  a  matter  o'  that  —  but  when  it  comes  to 
business  —  d'  ye  have  any  witnesses  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Amarita,  in  a  small  voice. 

"  Well,  you  've  done  about  as  bad  for  your 
self  as  ye  could,  fur's  I  can  see.  Now,  you 
hearken  to  me.  You  leave  that  packin'-case 
where  he  set  it,  and  don't  you  move  it  so  much  as 
a  hair  to  the  right  or  the  left,  and  don't  you  lift 
the  cover.  And  if  that  feller  ever  darkens  these 
doors,  you  come  and  call  me." 

Then  Elihu  rose  and  took  a  candle  and  went 
off  to  his  desk  in  the  sitting-room,  and  Amarita 
cleared  the  table  with  swift,  sweeping  motions, 
as  if  she  longed  to  hurl  the  dishes  from  her.  Old 
Mis'  Meade  came  heavily  back  from  her  bed 
room. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  in  the  scorn  sprung  from 
experience,  "  I  never  seen  sich  actions.  Terrible 
time,  an'  nobody  to  it!  What  made  ye  tell 
him?" 

Amarita  returned  no  answer.  She  was  wash 
ing  dishes  now,  with  no  noise,  setting  down  each 
article  softly,  yet  with  the  same  air  of  longing 
to  destroy. 

"  Witnesses !  "  old  Mis'  Meade  grumbled,  set 
tling  to  her  work  by  the  window.  "  If  Elihu 's 
the  size  he  used  to  be,  I  'd  show  him  how  much 
womenfolks  knew  about  business.  If  you  want 


348          COUNTEY  NEIGHBOKS 

one  o'  them  books  to  read  to-night,  you  step 
into  the  front  entry  an'  pick  ye  out  one.  I'll 
stand  by  ye." 

Still  Amarita  made  no  answer.  She  was  not 
thinking  of  the  books.  Swift  as  wood-creatures 
coursing  on  the  track  of  prey,  her  mind  was 
racing  over  the  field  of  her  life  with  Elihu  and 
pinning  down  the  mistakes  he  had  made.  She 
had  never  seemed  to  see  them,  but  not  one  of 
them  had  escaped  her.  There  was  the  day  when 
a  traveling  salesman  had  sold  him  the  onion  seed 
that  never  came  up,  and  the  other  one  when  he 
had  bought  Old  White  of  the  peddler,  and  seen 
him  go  lame  after  a  two-mile  drive,  and  when 
he  dated  a  note  on  Sunday  and  the  school 
teacher  had  laughed.  At  first  Amarita  had  not 
merely  ignored  his  errors.  She  had,  indeed,  shut 
her  eyes  upon  them  and  turned  quickly  away  ; 
but  as  it  became  apparent  that  Elihu  was  keep 
ing  a  record  of  her  impulsive,  random  deeds  and 
drawing  data  from  them,  so  she  began  to  see 
the  list  of  his,  and  turned  to  it  now  and  then, 
when  he  found  her  foolish,  to  read  it  over  in  a 
passionate  self-comparison. 

When  the  dishes  were  done  she  sat  down  to 
her  sewing,  outwardly  calm,  but  conscious  of 
that  hot  flush  in  her  cheeks  and  of  her  quickly 
beating  heart.  Old  Mis'  Meade  muttered  a  little 
as  she  knit,  and  cast  her  son  a  hostile  glance 


MASTER  MIJSTDS  OF  HISTORY    349 

from  time  to  time.  But  Elihu  was  happily  im 
pervious  to  criticism.  He  spread  a  sheet  of  paper 
on  the  table,  and  sat  down  to  it  with  the  air  of 
a  schoolboy  who  is  about  to  square  his  elbows 
and  perhaps  put  out  a  rhythmic  tongue. 

"  Where 's  my  two-foot  rule  ?  "  he  inquired  of 
Amarita. 

"In  your  t'other  trousers,"  she  answered, 
sewing  swiftly,  without  looking  up. 

Elihu  glanced  at  her  in  a  mild  surprise,  and 
his  mother  chuckled.  She  was  devoted  to  her 
son,  and  more  or  less  overshadowed  by  his  pre 
rogative  as  "  menf  oiks "  born  to  absorb  the 
cream  of  things  ;  but  the  elderly  good  sense  in 
her  was  alive  to  the  certainty  that  if  Amarita 
had  not  been  so  yielding,  Elihu  would  never 
have  been  so  bumptious. 

After  he  had  risen  and  gone  off  rather  help 
lessly  to  seek  his  t'other  trousers,  Amarita  did 
glance  after  him  with  a  tentative  movement  from 
her  chair.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  she  repented 
and  meant  to  go  on  the  quest  herself.  Old  Mis' 
Meade,  translating  this,  held  her  breath  and 
waited  ;  but  Amarita  only  sighed  and  took  a 
needleful  of  thread.  Then  Elihu  returned  with 
the  rule  and  a  stubby  pencil,  and  all  the  evening 
long  he  drew  lines  and  held  the  paper  at  arm's 
length  and  frowned  at  what  he  saw.  Old  Mis' 
Meade  was  in  the  habit  of  going  to  bed  before 


350          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

the  others,  and  to-night  she  paused,  candle  in 
hand,  to  interrogate  him. 

"Elihu!" 

"  What  say  ? "  her  son  returned.  He  was 
again  regarding  the  rectangular  patterns  on  his 
page,  in  some  dissatisfaction  and  yet  with  plea 
sure,  too.  It  was  the  look  of  one  who  makes. 

"  What  under  the  sun  you  doin'  of  ?  "  asked 
the  old  lady.  "  What  you  rulin'  off  ?  Makes  me 
as  nervous  as  a  witch." 

Elihu  laid  down  his  paper  from  that  removed 
survey  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  It  seemed 
to  add  some  richness  to  his  task  to  have  it  no 
ticed. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "there's  goin'  to  be  a  town 
meetin'  next  Wednesday,  to  take  a  vote  on  that 
money  Judge  Green  left  for  the  Old  Folks' 
Home." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  his  mother.  "  I  know  that. 
Come,  hurry  up.  This  candle's  in  a  draught." 

"Well,"  said  Elihu,  "we've  talked  it  over, 
more  or  less,  most  on  us,  and  we've  come  to  the 
conclusion  it 's  only  a  bill  o'  cost  to  go  hirin'  city 
architects  to  plan  out  the  job.  All  we  want 's  a 
good  square  house,  and  I  thought  I  'd  draw  out 
a  plan  o'  one  and  submit  it  to  the  meetin'." 

"  O  Elihu !  "  said  Amarita,  in  a  tone  of  gen 
erous  awe.  "  You  think  you  could  ?  " 

"  Think  ?  "  said  Elihu.  "  No,  I  don't  think.  I 


MASTER  MLSTDS  OF  HISTORY    351 

know  it.  Mebbe  I  couldn't  draw  out  a  house 
with  cubelows  and  piazzas  and  jogs  and  the  like 
o'  that,  but  that  ain't  what  we  've  got  in  mind. 
It's  a  good  old-fashioned  house,  and  I  s'pose 
any  man  of  us  could  do  it,  only  nobody 's  got 
the  nerve  to  try.  So  I  took  it  into  my  head  to 
be  the  one." 

"  Well,"  said  his  mother  skeptically,  "  mebbe 
you  can  an'  mebbe  you  can't.  Good-night,  all." 

But  Amarita  leaned  forward  across  the  table, 
her  eager  eyes  upon  the  paper.  She  had  for 
gotten  her  resentment.  It  was  happiness  to  her 
to  see  Elihu  doing  what  he  liked  and  succeeding 
in  it. 

"  O  Elihu,"  said  she,  "  show  it  to  me,  won't 
you  ?  Tell  me  what  the  rooms  are." 

But  he  was  rolling  up  his  work. 

"  No,"  he  said  ;  "  wait  till  I  get  a  little  further 
along.  Then  I  will.  I  'm  going  to  the  street  and 
buy  me  a  sheet  or  two  o'  cardboard  to-morrer." 

But  they  talked  cozily  about  it  for  a  half- 
hour,  and  when  Elihu  rose  to  wind  the  clock 
they  were  both  convinced  that  he  was  a  great 
man  indeed. 

All  that  week  Elihu  worked  over  his  plan, 
and  when  he  had  at  last  set  it  accurately  down 
on  the  cover  of  a  bandbox,  as  a  preliminary  to 
drafting  it  out  fair  and  large,  he  showed  it  to 
his  wife.  They  had  put  their  heads  together  over 


352          COUNTKY  NEIGHBOES 

it  at  the  table,  when  Elihu  caught  sight  of 
Simeon  Eldridge  bringing  him  a  cord  of  pine 
limbs. 

"You  wait  a  minute,"  he  adjured  Amarita. 
"  I  got  to  help  him  unload.  I  '11  show  it  to  you 
when  I  come  in." 

But  Amarita  pored  over  it  by  herself,  and  old 
Mis'  Meade,  at  the  window,  knit  and  watched 
for  the  passing.  It  was  a  bright  day,  and  it 
seemed  reasonable  that  at  least  two  wagons 
might  go  by. 

"Don't  you  want  I  should  bring  it  over 
there,"  said  Amarita,  at  length,  "  and  let  you 
look  at  it?" 

"  Law,  no !  "  old  Mis'  Meade  responded,  with 
the  ruthlessness  of  one  whose  mind  is  not  on 
futures.  "  I  guess  I  can  wait  till  they  've  begun 
to  hew  out  their  underpinnin'." 

"  Ain't  it  remarkable  he  can  do  a  thing  like 
that?" 

"  He  ain't  done  it  yet,"  said  the  old  lady 
sagely.  "  I  '11  b'lieve  it  when  I  'm  called  to  the 
raisin'." 

Amarita  flushed. 

"  I  don't  see  what  does  make  you  cry  him 
down  so,"  she  declared,  with  a  rare  resentment. 
"  Seems  if  you  did  n't  want  to  allow  he  can  do 
the  least  thing  out  o'  the  common." 

"  Well,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  I  dunno  's  he  can. 


MASTER  MINDS  OF  HISTORY    353 

There,  Amarita !  "  She  threw  caution  from  her 
as  far  as  it  would  fly.  "  I  guess  I  set  by  Elihu 
enough,  an'  more  too,  but  it  does  go  ag'inst  the 
grain  to  see  you  makin'  out  he 's  the  greatest 
man  that  ever  stepped.  'T  won't  be  long  before 
ye  can't  live  with  him.  Can't  either  of  us !  " 

Amarita  was  silent,  staring  straight  at  the  old 
lady,  who  glanced  up  presently  and  blinked  at 
her. 

"  You  goin'  to  let  them  books  set  there  in  the 
front  entry  ?  "  she  inquired,  as  if  her  point  of 
attack  had  shifted. 

"  Why,  yes,  I  s'pose  so,"  faltered  Amarita. 

"Don't  ye  want  to  peek  into  'em  an'  see 
what  they  be?" 

"Why,  yes  ;  but  I  don't  want  to  do  anything 
to  get  Elihu  into  trouble  about  'em.  I  s'pose  I 
was  kinder  foolish  to  believe  what  the  man  said." 

"  Foolish !  "  retorted  the  old  lady,  with  vigor. 
"  Course  you  was  foolish.  Everybody 's  foolish 
one  time  out  o'  three.  That's  about  the  only 
thing  there  's  no  patent  on." 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  folks  do  get  into  trouble  doin' 
things  wrong-end-to,"  said  Amarita. 

She  felt  as  if  she  were  defending  Elihu  in  his 
censorship. 

"Why,  yes!  Nobody  says  they  don't.  Let 
'em  git  in  an'  let  'em  git  out  ag'in.  It  ain't  doin' 
foolish  things  or  not  doin'  'em  I  complain  of.  It 's 


354          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

Elihu's  settin'  himself  up  to  be  the  only  human 
creator'  that  never  stepped  inside  of  a  glass 
house.  Law !  if  he  did  but  know  it,  he  's  got  a 
ninety-nine-year  lease  o'  one,  an'  if  he  could  git 
it  into  his  head  how  plain  I  can  glimpse  him 
through  the  walls,  a  surpriseder  man  you  never 'd 
see.  Elihu  's  as  good  a  boy  as  ever  stepped  ;  but 
if  he  could  be  took  down  a  peg  —  an'  I  should  n't 
care  if  't  was  before  the  whole  township,  too  — 
he  'd  be  worth  more  by  half  than  he  is  to-day. 
Law !  you  'd  ought  to  seen  him  a  hundred  years 
ago  or  more,  arter  I  gi'n  him  a  good  spankin'. 
Butter  would  n't  melt  in  his  mouth." 

"Oh,  don't!  He's  comin',"  Amarita  begged 
her. 

But  he  was  not  coming,  and  for  an  hour 
Amarita  dwelt  upon  the  plans.  Her  eyes  grew 
bright  and  her  cheeks  flushed.  Once  she  pushed 
her  pretty  hair  back  from  her  forehead  and 
looked  up  at  the  old  lady,  as  if  she  had  impul 
sive  things  to  say.  But  she  did  not  speak,  and 
turning  back  to  the  plans,  she  went  absorbedly 
over  them  again.  Old  Mis'  Meade  watched  her 
scornfully,  and  yet  tenderly,  too.  If  ever  a 
woman  was  a  fool  over  a  man,  she  reasoned, 
Amarita  was  that  fool;  but  in  her  heart  she 
would  not  have  had  it  otherwise. 

Now  that  the  plans  were  virtually  finished, 
Elihu  sat  over  them  at  an  hour's  stretch,  testing 


MASTER  MINDS  OF  HISTORY    355 

and  measuring  in  an  extreme  of  accuracy. 
Amarita  watched  him,  with  that  bright  antici 
pation  in  her  face ;  and  old  Mis'  Meade,  her  eyes 
intermittently  upon  them,  thought  the  long 
thoughts  of  age,  half  scornful,  half  sympathiz 
ing,  and  wondered  again  how  any  woman  could 
be  so  lost  in  admiration  over  a  man. 

At  last  it  was  the  day  appointed  for  town 
meeting,  and  Elihu  was  at  his  task  for  the  last 
time,  making  a  fair  copy  for  his  townsmen's 
eyes.  It  was  about  four  in  the  afternoon,  and 
the  smell  of  hot  apple-sauce  was  in  the  air. 
Amarita  meant  to  have  supper  early,  so  that 
she  could  give  her  mind  untrammeled  to  getting 
her  husband  into  his  bosomed  shirt  and  starting 
him  on  his  quest.  But  as  she  moved  back  and 
forth  at  her  tasks  she  watched  him,  and  her  eyes 
glittered.  Old  Mis'  Meade  noted  the  excitement 
of  her  air  and  the  double  tinge  of  color  in  her 
cheeks. 

"  What  'sthe  matter,  Rita  ?  "  she  asked  kindly, 
when  Amarita  stood  for  a  moment  by  the  table 
between  the  front  windows,  frowning  with  the 
care  she  was  giving  to  sewing  a  button  on  a 
wristband.  "Ain't  you  kinder  feverish?" 

Amarita  started  —  almost,  it  might  have  been, 
with  some  inner  consciousness  not  to  be  given 
away. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  she.  "  I  ain't  feverish,  mother 


356          COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

Meade.  Maybe  I'm  kinder  flurried,  Elihu's  goin' 
out  and  all." 

"  Goin'  to  take  the  womenfolks  along  with  ye, 
Elihu?"  called  the  old  lady,  a  satirical  note 
beating  into  her  voice. 

Elihu  looked  up  absently  from  his  paper. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  with  a  leniency  slightly  tinc 
tured  by  the  impatience  responsive  to  a  foolish 
question,  "  it 's  jest  a  town  meetin',  same  as  any 
other.  We  're  goin'  to  take  action  on  the  Old 
Folks'  Home." 

"  Take  action  ? "  repeated  old  Mis'  Meade. 
"  Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?  Well,  Eita  'n'  I'll  stay  to 
home  an'  take  action  on  the  '  Master  Minds  o' 
History.'  This  is  as  good  a  night  as  any.  Mebbe 
there's  a  few  womenfolks  in  there  —  enough  for 
pepper  V  salt  —  if  they  ain't  bound  for  town 
meetin'." 

Elihu  drew  the  long  breath  which  is  the  due 
of  happily  completed  toil.  He  began  to  roll  up 
his  plans.  Amarita  ran  to  him  and  looked  over 
his  shoulder. 

"  You  got  'em  done  ?  "  she  asked. 

The  red  in  her  cheeks  had  heightened.  Her 
voice  came  huskily.  Old  Mis'  Meade  glanced  at 
her,  a  sharp  and  quick  survey.  Elihu  indulgently 
unrolled  his  paper  and  spread  it  on  the  desk. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  I  got  'em  done." 

"  O  Elihu !  "  breathed  his  wife.  She  bent  above 


MASTER  MENDS  OP  HISTOEY    357 

the  page,  and  in  the  fever  of  her  interest  seemed 
to  pounce  on  it  and  scurry  over  it.  "  You  goin' 
to  show  it  to  the  town  meetin'  ?  " 

"  Course  I  be,"  said  Elihu,  with  a  modest 
pride.  "  That 's  what  I  made  it  for." 

Amarita  straightened. 

"  Well,"  said  she.  Her  voice  was  hard  through 
what  might  have  been  an  accepted  purpose. 
"  You  may  as  well  shave  you.  We  '11  have  sup 
per  early." 

Supper  was  a  silent  meal  that  night.  Elihu 
was  pondering  on  his  triumph  as  a  valuable 
citizen,  and  what  Amarita  thought  no  one  could 
at  that  moment  have  foretold.  She  did  not  eat, 
but  she  drank  her  tea  in  hasty  swallows,  and 
burned  her  mouth  with  it.  That,  the  old  lady 
guessed,  was  why  the  tears  came  once  or  twice 
into  her  eyes.  Amarita,  her  mother-in-law 
judged,  had  been  staying  indoors  too  much 
through  the  snowy  weather,  while  Elihu  worked 
on  his  plans.  There  had  been  no  sleigh-rides, 
only  the  necessary  driving  to  the  street. 

Old  Mis'  Meade  had  a  little  scheme  in  view, 
and  now  she  brought  it  forth;  it  was  a  species 
of  compensation  for  stay-at-homes  during  the 
absence  of  their  lawful  head  for  his  two  or  three 
hours  of  civic  duty. 

"  What  if  you  should  bring  in  a  good  big  knot 
'fore  you  go,"  she  adjured  him,  "  an'  Rita  'n'  I  '11 


358         COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

have  us  a  fire  in  the  fireplace.  I  dunno  why,  but 
seems  if  I  did  n't  want  to  set  in  the  kitchen  to 
night.  Then  by  the  time  you  come  home  there  '11 
be  a  good  bed  o'  coals,  an'  you  can  toast  your 
feet  'fore  you  go  to  bed." 

There  was  a  whirling  half-hour  of  prepara 
tion,  while  old  Mis'  Meade  washed  the  supper 
dishes  and  Amarita  flew  light-footedly  about 
from  kitchen  to  bedroom  to  get  her  lord  into 
his  public  clothes.  Elihu  forgot  the  knot,  and 
brought  it  in  after  he  had  assumed  the  garb  of 
ceremony  ;  and  then  he  had  to  be  fussily  brushed 
from  possible  sawdust,  while  Amarita,  an  anx 
ious  frown  on  her  brow,  wondered  why  mother 
Meade  always  would  distract  him  at  the  most 
important  points.  The  fire  was  laid,  but  Elihu 
was  one  of  those  who  believe  in  their  own  per 
sonal  magic  over  a  blaze,  and  he  had  to  adjust 
the  knot  and  touch  off  the  kindling  and  watch 
the  result  a  minute,  to  be  sure  the  chimney  had 
not  caught.  By  the  time  he  had  harnessed  and 
had  appeared  again  to  wash  his  hands  and  don 
his  greatcoat,  two  other  sleighs  had  gone  by, 
bearing  town  fathers  to  the  trysting-place. 
Amarita  was  nervous.  She  knew  Elihu  liked  to 
be  beforehand  with  his  duties.  But  at  last,  his 
roll  of  plans  in  hand,  he  was  proceeding  down 
the  path,  slipping  a  little,  for  the  thaw  had  made 
it  treacherous,  to  the  gate  where  the  horse  was 


MASTER  MESTDS  OF  HISTOKY    359 

hitched,  and  Amarita,  at  the  sitting-room  win 
dow,  watched  him.  Old  Mis'  Meade  came  up 
behind  her,  and  she  too  watched. 

Elihu  was  uncovering  the  horse.  Amarita 
turned  from  her  mother-in-law  with  a  noiseless 
rush  and  flew  out  of  the  front  door  and  down 
the  slippery  path. 

"Elihu I"  she  called,  with  all  the  voice  excite 
ment  left  her.  "  Elihu,  you  come  here.  I  Ve  got 
to  speak  to  you." 

Elihu  left  the  horse  and  came  with  long 
strides  up  the  path,  taking,  as  he  hurried, 
glances  at  the  roof. 

"  Koarin',  is  it  ?  "  he  asked.  "  You  think  the 
chimbley's  ketched?" 

The  roll  of  plans  stuck  out  from  his  coat 
pocket.  That  was  all  Amarita  could  see.  She 
laid  hands  upon  him  and  drew  him  into  the  en 
try.  There  she  shut  the  door  and  then  stood  with 
her  grasp  upon  the  other  door,  leading  into  the 
sitting-room,  and  held  it  tight.  She  was  afraid 
mother  Meade  might  come  out  to  see  what  was 
the  matter.  Amarita  leaned  against  the  casing. 
In  spite  of  the  brightness  of  her  eyes,  she  looked 
faint  and  sick.  It  seemed  to  be  her  grasp  upon 
the  latch  that  kept  her  now  from  falling. 

"O  Elihu!  "  she  said.  He  was  questioning  her 
with  puzzled  eyes.  "  O  Elihu !  I  Ve  been  awful 
mean  to  you."  Her  hold  on  the  latch  relaxed, 


360         COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS 

and  she  sat  down  on  the  packing-case  between 
them.  "  When  I  told  you  about  the  box  the  man 
left,  and  you  seemed  to  think  I  didn't  know 
enough  to  come  in  wiien  it  rained,  I  said  next 
time  you  made  any  kind  of  a  mistake  I  'd  let  it 
go,  no  matter  who  's  goin'  to  laugh  at  you.  And 
when  it  come  to  your  plans  "  —  she  stopped  here, 
and  Elihu  absently  put  his  hand  to  the  roll  in 
his  pocket  —  "  when  it  come  to  them,  I  said  you 
might  show  'em  to  the  minister  and  the  doctor 
and  everybody  else.  But,  Elihu,  there  ain't  — 
O  Elihu,  you  ain't  put  a  single  closet  in  that 
house ! " 

Elihu  stood  there  in  silence,  and  Amarita  sat 
on  the  packing-case,  feeling  her  heart  beat. 
It  seemed  a  long  time  before  she  heard  his 
voice. 

"  There !  there  ! "  he  was  saying.  "  You  open 
that  door  and  I  '11  look  in  an'  see  if  the  chim- 
bley  's  ketched." 

In  a  moment  Amarita  followed  him.  She  heard 
mother  Meade  moving  about  the  kitchen,  and 
Elihu  was  just  dropping  his  roll  of  paper  on  the 
fire.  She  gave  a  little  cry,  but  he  only  said,  in 
what  seemed  to  her  a  very  kind  voice,  almost 
the  voice  of  courting  days,  — 

"  You  run  out  and  fetch  me  in  the  hammer 
and  screw-driver,  whilst  I  listen  to  this  chim- 
bley." 


MASTER  MINDS   OF  HISTORY    361 

"When  she  came  droopingly  back  with  the 
tools,  Elihu  was  explicitly  cheerful. 

"  There  ! "  he  said.  "  That 's  safe  enough. 
We  '11  burn  it  out,  come  wet  weather."  Then  he 
strode  into  the  hall,  and  she  heard  two  or  three 
blows  and  the  splintering  of  soft  wood.  "  Here 's 
your  books,"  Elihu  was  calling  to  her.  "  You 
two  take  'em  out,  and  if  't  ain't  too  late  after  I 
come  home,  I'll  read  a  page.  I  guess  we  can 
foot  the  bill  when  it  comes  in." 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


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DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


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LD  21-100m-7,'33 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


